Blonde on Blonde: The Remix
by GentleReader
Summary: Is David the Sexy Stranger Maddie was wishing for? Or is it that other guy? ***Finally Complete!***
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Moonlighting_ or these characters.

**Author's Note (edited 10/4/09):** When it was originally posted (egad! three months ago!), this story was supposed to be a simple, three-chapter retelling of "Blonde on Blonde." Well, when I got to Chapter 3, we were still just at the beginning, and by the time we arrived at Chapter 7, things had really spiraled out of control, with all the characters--even Sam!--wanting to have their say.

So what you're looking at now is an alternate-universe version of four seminal episodes from the end of the third season: "Blonde on Blonde," "Sam & Dave," "Maddie's Turn to Cry," and "I Am Curious...Maddie." Faithful Moonlighting fans will, I hope, notice a few parallels to these episodes; where possible, I have tried to make connections with the originals to honor their brilliance and give readers a sense of where we are in the timeline.

Thanks for reading and, especially, for reviewing. Your feedback is deeply appreciated! If you're just joining us...I hope you enjoy the ride. ;)

**Blonde on Blonde: The Remix**

**Chapter One**

David stood in a shadowy alcove near the restroom, waiting for his quarry to reappear. He shuddered at the memory of their earlier conversation: Maddie's faraway look; the bemused smile that hovered on her lips; but most of all, her words: "I'd like to go out there and find some man…not even ask his name…and go to a hotel or something…not even know his name…and just be bad…be wonderful…"

He had felt revulsion—or something—roil in his gut before out-and-out panic took over. After she took off down the hallway, he Shanghaied Bert (and Bert's brand-new wheels) and followed her. He had thought they were out of the woods when she stopped at the grocery store, but then she'd changed course and ended up at this watering hole for desperate yuppies. Luckily, the "talent" here was so pathetic that it looked like she had given up the hunt.

Suddenly, the ladies' room door banged open, and he glimpsed a blonde in a cream-colored coat and hat. David asked Bert, waiting beside him, for his keys. "Cover the front," David ordered. "I'll drive this time." Bert hesitated, then reluctantly handed over the keys and headed outside.

David pulled up his collar and hurried to the exit, keeping the blonde in his sights. Just as she reached the front entrance, though, she turned her head; David caught her profile, realizing with a start that he had the right coat…but the wrong woman. What the—? Ah, well, no time to dwell on an odd fashion coincidence—he had to make sure Maddie didn't get away.

He started to weave his way back to the bathroom when he saw her come out, making her way determinedly to the side door. He turned quickly, shielding his face with one hand, and trailed her out to the parking lot. Running to the Ford as unobtrusively as possible, he got in and managed to merge into traffic only two cars behind the BMW. He was so focused that he forgot poor Bert entirely.

Maddie took a familiar route, and he felt some of the gutting tension inside him release. When she turned into her driveway, he pulled over to the side of the road, letting out a long breath. An idea came to him as he rested his head on the steering wheel.

Really? Nah—he didn't really—she might—it would never work.

But what the hell.

* * *

He pulled back into the driveway, quickly killing the engine and the lights. Climbing out of the car, he smoothed down his black jeans and yanked the lapels of his leather jacket up against the rain. His boots splashed over the pavers as he jogged to her front door.

Once out of the rain, he took a deep breath and adjusted the mask over his eyes. It had taken him nearly an hour to find it, in an all-night discount store; he had spent another half hour in pursuit of a perfect red rose. Holding the bloom down by his side, he lifted his other hand and knocked quietly.

He waited. And knocked again, this time louder.

Maddie opened the door a crack and peered out. She looked frightened at first, and then confused. "David?" she said uncertainly.

"Special delivery," he said, leaning into the small opening. She was wearing a lavender silk nightgown, trimmed in lace, with a matching robe. David's hands practically itched to touch her soft skin.

"Special _what_?" she said, keeping the door latched. She seemed hesitant to let him in; looking out at the now-pouring rain, however, she relented and opened the door. "_What_ are you wearing?" she asked, as he stepped inside.

He shut the door and then turned, backing her against it. "Special delivery," he said, holding up the rose. "Did you or did you not order one stranger"—he smiled—"tall, dark, and handsome"—he trailed the rose down her cheek—"whose name you don't know?" He moved very close to her, running the rose over her lips and down her neck.

He saw her swallow, watched her fight for breath. "But I know _your_ name," she protested.

He propped one hand on the door behind her. "Not tonight, you don't," he said, and covered her mouth with his.

He could feel her shock of surprise, but he didn't stop kissing her. God, her lips were so soft…he had almost forgotten… She went slightly limp, sinking back against the door. He drew back to look at her face, to see how far she wanted to take this little game. Before he could break away, however, Maddie grabbed his jacket and pulled him still closer, starting the war of lips and tongues all over again.

David abandoned his scruples and lost himself in her. The rose fluttered to the floor forgotten, as he slid his arms around her, gathering the silk of her robe in his fists.

Neither of them heard the footsteps on the stairs.

"Maddie!" exclaimed a man's voice, hovering on the edge of David's consciousness. "Get off of her!" Someone ripped him away from Maddie, landing a powerful fist on his jaw and sending him sprawling backwards.

"Sam!" Maddie shouted, grabbing his assailant's arm.

David looked up from his position on the Mexican tile. Standing next to Maddie, dressed only in jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, was a chiseled-looking guy with a full head of light-brown hair. David got up, running his finger over the corner of his mouth; he tasted blood. He glanced at Maddie, who was holding her robe tightly closed. She looked aghast…and guilty.

David and the chiseled guy (Sam, had she called him? Guess she'd relented on the name thing) spoke at the same time. "Who the hell is this, Maddie?"

Their simultaneous question seemed to shock her out of her silence.

"None of your damn business!" she snapped, whether at her partner or the stranger, David couldn't tell. She pointed to Sam: "You—upstairs!" and then to David: "You—living room!"

Sam obeyed; David, however, stripped off his mask and thrust it at her. "Didn't realize this position was already taken," he said bitingly. "Sorry to have interrupted your"—he glanced up the stairs—"evening." He turned on his booted heel.

"David!" Maddie called, but he was already out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Maddie slumped down on the stairs, the mask still in her hands. What a night! She remembered arguing with David in her office, how she felt unexpectedly let down when he turned on her and yelled, "I don't want to hear this!"—and then furious when he intimated that she couldn't take care of herself. She might've relented, though, might've even felt grateful for his concern, if he hadn't taunted her: "You're going right home, aren't you?"

Anger carried her all the way down to the car. As she drove out of the garage, though, her fury dissipated. She suddenly felt tired, very tired…tired of solitary glasses of wine and feeding her fish, tired of using music to fill up an empty house, tired of being 36 years old and sleeping alone.

And she didn't have a thing to eat in the house, either. No reason to keep stocks of food on hand, she thought, as she pulled into a store parking lot. She went in, listlessly choosing a frozen dinner, a cantaloupe, and a pint of milk.

As she left, the insubstantial weight of the bag mocked her—she heard David's jeering tone again—and, with renewed resolution, she dumped her paltry groceries in another woman's cart and took off for the best-known meat market in town.

It had been a complete waste of time. She was there twenty minutes, long enough to get hit on by a married man and an overconfident clod. As a capper to this marvelous evening, her hat and coat had been stolen in the ladies' room. Clearly, the gods did not favor Maddie Hayes' foray into reckless spontaneity.

Defeated, she had climbed in her car and driven home, to find a message from Sam awaiting her. Sam. She hadn't seen him in years, not since a Christmas party at her parents' house, right after she had retired from modeling. It had been a little awkward; they hadn't really spoken much. What did you say to someone, someone you had known forever…someone you cared about, loved even…someone (the first one) you ever really gave yourself to…and someone you left because something (the timing? the passion? the future?) just didn't feel right?

At the time, Sam's star was on the rise. He had just interviewed with NASA; she knew how excited he was at the prospect of going into space. Would he feel differently now—more blasé, like it was just another job, she wondered? She knew she would've heard if he was married, but had he found another "someone"? She felt curious, and at the same time, nostalgic. Her life had been bound up with Sam's, one way or another, for a long time. She wished they hadn't been so out of touch.

He called again, just as she was running a bath; he was in town, and wanted to know if she would meet him in the bar at his hotel. "Bars—ugh!" she had replied. "Sam, I'd love to see you, but I can't face going out again tonight. Why don't you just come here?"

They had spent an hour drinking wine and catching up in front of the fire. When the combination of the warmth and the wine made her visibly sleepy, Sam stood up to go.

"It seems silly for you to put up at some expensive hotel," she said, stretching languidly, "when I have a perfectly good guestroom here."

Sam smiled, a twinkle in his eye. She had always loved his smile. "Is breakfast included?"

"If you make it, it is."

And that had been that—Sam got his bag, she showed him where the towels were and then collapsed into bed, sleeping dreamlessly until she heard the pounding on the door.

"Can I come out now?" Sam's voice pierced her thoughts. Maddie looked up the stairs. He stood in the guestroom doorway, one hand holding the jamb. "Sure," she replied, with a "why not?" gesture.

He stepped down and sat on the stair above her. "I'm sorry," he offered.

She shook her head. "It's not really your fault, I guess," she said unconvincingly.

"It's just—it looked like—when I saw him, I just—I thought maybe he was a burglar or something," he finished lamely, his usual smoothness having deserted him. His eyes shifted away from her; he looked uncomfortable. "You didn't mention you were seeing anyone."

"I'm not. It wasn't—he isn't—that was my partner. My _business_ partner." Maddie felt a flush creep up her cheeks.

"Wow. Must be some business." Too late, Sam realized his joke wasn't funny. "Sorry." He looked at her expectantly; clearly, he wanted to know more, but Maddie didn't know what to tell him.

"Look, Sam, I've had a _really_ long day…I think I'm just going to turn in." She got up to go to her room, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Hey," he said softly. "I hope I didn't mess things up for you. I just want you to be happy." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then stood aside and watched her climb the stairs.

Maddie closed the door behind her. Sitting down on her bed, she stared at the phone for a long moment before picking up the handset and dialing. She wasn't surprised when it rang and rang and rang…and when she heard the familiar jaunty message, she hung up quickly.

* * *

David didn't go back to his apartment. He felt a burning desire to put his fist through something—or someone—but underneath his anger was another, unprecedented feeling: he just couldn't face his empty rooms, all the reminders of his free-and-easy lifestyle. He contemplated hitting one of his rougher hangouts, downing several shots of tequila, and picking an inane fight over pool or darts…but the truth was, his jaw still ached and he was suddenly exhausted.

He couldn't believe that Maddie had done what she'd done—and yet he _did_ believe it. In David's experience with women, if it looked bad, it _was_ bad…and often, it was much worse than bad. David didn't know where she had picked up the Adonis with Attitude—please God, not from the Yellow Pages—but he had been there, in the middle of the night, barely dressed. You didn't have to connect too many damn dots to figure it out.

But then why the kiss? David thought. If she had just slapped him and sent him on his way, he was sure he wouldn't feel so awful. After all, that was the natural order of things between them: he got suggestive, and she turned him down. But to respond the way she had…to grab him and ask for more...when all the time she had someone warming her bed—a wave of nausea hit him. This was taking "reckless" _way_ too far.

He found himself outside Blue Moon's front door and went in, heading straight for the liquor cabinet in his office. Chocolate milk, or even beer, was not gonna do it—no, this time, he needed the big guns to dull his anger and humiliation.

Pouring himself a scotch, neat, he sat down heavily in one corner of the couch and leaned his head back. A groan erupted from the other end, and David bolted upright, spilling most of his drink on the carpet. "Damn!"

"Mr. Addison?" said a familiar voice.

"Jesus, Bert, trying to give me a coronary?" There wasn't much moonlight coming through the blinds, but as Bert sat up, David could tell that he was groggy, disheveled, and—David sniffed tentatively—pungent.

"I'm sorry I startled you, sir. I just—"

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I'll be happy to tell you the whole story, sir…just, please…is my car OK?"

David flipped him the keys without comment.

"Thank you, sir. I—I never doubted—I'm sure you would look after it as if it was your own." David waved this praise away with one hand, then leaned back and covered his eyes with the other.

Reassured as to the fate of his beloved vehicle, Bert leaned forward, trying—and failing—to restrain his eagerness to impart the details of his evening. "Well, Mr. Addison, I did just what you said. I went out front and waited for you to come around. But as I was waiting, I saw Miss Hayes come out of the bar. She didn't go to her car, though—she turned and walked up the street. I thought I'd better follow her—at a safe distance, of course—so we didn't lose her. When I got down the block, I looked back and saw you pulling out of the parking lot. I waved, but it looked like you were following someone. I figured you'd found the suspect and were trailing him." Bert finally took a breath, waiting for David to confirm this theory. He didn't. Bert went on:

"So, anyway, I kept following her down the street. Boy, she sure is a fast walker—I guess she was in a hurry. She ducked through a doughnut shop, and then I just saw her as she disappeared into this building. I tried to get in, but there was a locked security door. So I thought I'd better wait her out."

David opened one eye, interested in spite of himself. His instincts woke up: he thought he smelled a case. He waited for Bert to continue, but the diminutive detective-in-training was uncharacteristically silent…was, in fact, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"So what happened?" David finally asked.

"Well, I waited what seemed like _hours_—oh, not that Miss Hayes isn't worth waiting for," Bert interrupted himself hurriedly. "It started pouring, so I ducked into an alley. It was slippery and I—um—slipped."

"Hit a Dumpster, did you?"

"How did you know?" David wrinkled his nose, and Bert's face fell. "Oh. Yeah, I did. Anyway, when I looked back at the street, there were three police cars clustered outside the building. I don't mind telling you that I was nervous—I didn't know where Miss Hayes was." Bert was standing now, gesturing excitedly. "Well, the boys in blue went in, and about thirty seconds later, I saw Miss Hayes climbing down the fire escape." He chuckled and shook his head. "I didn't know she had it in her—" then, at David's look—"uh, with all due respect, sir."

David nodded curtly, making a "go on" gesture.

"Well…that's really all I know. She took off down the street, turned a corner, and I—lost her." Bert looked down at his hands, clearly disappointed in himself.

"How long ago was this?"

Bert checked his night-lit watch. "About three hours ago."

"So she could be anywhere! And you didn't call me?"

Bert looked stricken. "Oh, I tried, sir! I called you at home, but there was no answer. So I took a cab here, thinking you might come back after you caught your terrorist. You _did_ catch him, didn't you?"

David sat up, the wheels turning, barely paying attention to Bert's question. "Not tonight, Bert…but we'll keep trying."

"Well, have you heard from Miss Hayes? Should we call her? Go by her house?"

"No!" David said sharply; Bert looked startled at his vehemence. "I mean, Bertie, I'm sorry to tell you this, but Miss Hayes has been home safe and sound since about 9:30 tonight. You had the wrong blonde."

"What?!" The smaller man seemed to inflate with rage. "You mean I did all this—" he gestured to himself—"for nothing?"

David clapped him on the shoulder. "Good detective work is never for nothing, Herbert. And in fact, you may have just found us our next case." Bert simmered down, mollified by David's praise.

"Next case, Mr. Addison?"

David sat down behind his desk and picked up the phone. As he dialed, he said, "I don't know who this other blonde is, but if the police want her, they may be willing to pay for her." He leaned back in his chair as the call went through. "Yeah…is Detective Barber there? David Addison calling. Thanks…Hey, Petie, what's shakin'? Listen, I heard through the grapevine that you're looking for a certain young lady…blonde, leggy, apparently involved in something that went down at—" He looked questioningly at Bert.

"The Sheraton Town-House," Bert whispered.

"—the Sheraton Town-House," David finished. Grabbing a pen, he began to take notes. "Joan Tenowich. Uh-huh…OK…really? Black widow, indeed…yeah, sounds like it. Well, my colleague had a line on her tonight, until she escaped from your boys. We thought we would do some digging…mm-hmmm." David looked up at Bert with a slightly amused smile. "Oh, I'm sure he'd be happy to accommodate you. I'll send him on down…oh, yeah, I will. And Petie? If I can find her?...well, of course—but you can stand me a round too…OK, sounds good. Thanks. Bye."

Bert ran a hand over his rumpled hair. "I suppose they'd like to see me down at the station?" David nodded. "Very well." He turned to go, and then looked back at David. "You're going after her?"

David stood, stretched, and nodded again.

"Any chance I could…?"

"'Fraid not, Bertie old boy. I'm gonna need you here at the control center. I'll need all the info you can dig up about Joan Tenowich: how she got here, where she came from…here's what the LAPD boys know." He handed Bert the yellow legal pad. Bert raised it to his forehead in salute.

"You can count on me, Mr. Addison. When I get back from the station, I'll start right in—"

David looked him over. "Do us all a favor, Mr. Viola. Go home and take a shower first."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When Agnes came into Blue Moon the next morning, something struck her as…off. She looked around the outer office. Everything seemed normal there: coffeepot empty; assorted paper cups littered around the wastebasket; conspicuous lack of work on everyone's desk—except Herbert's, which was buried in files, assorted phone books, and sheets of yellow legal paper.

A peek into Ms. Hayes' office revealed nothing unusual either, so after watering the plants, Agnes headed over to Mr. Addison's lair. There the mystery ended. The place smelled like a seedy bar, alcohol mixed with another scent, almost like week-old garbage.

Covering her nose, Agnes pulled up the blinds and struggled to open the one operable window. Sunlight flooded the room, illuminating a likely stain on the carpet…confirmed by an empty tumbler on Mr. Addison's desk. Agnes shook her head—men!—and went to find the carpet cleaner.

Thirty minutes later, she reigned over a restored, if still empty, office. She loved this part of the day, the peace and quiet broken only by the hiss and drip of the coffeemaker. The phone was silent, no one was bickering or making demands. This was _her_ time. They came easily to her in the stillness…oh, not the rhymes themselves, which were always spontaneous, but her "theme" for the day: would she focus on the lighthearted—lost pets or jewelry, batty relatives; or the more dramatic—unsolved murders? Tax issues had been popular lately; 'twas the season, after all.

Well, no IRS rhymes today, she thought. Today, she was in a romantic mood: missing persons, lost loves. Couplets for couples, she smiled. And if she peeked quickly at Mr. Viola's seat, well, who was there to see her?

She finished readying her desk, got her coffee, and the clock struck nine. The Wobblies began filing in, followed in short order by Ms. Hayes, who looked…nervous?

Agnes could usually size up her workload by the way her bosses looked in the morning. Of course, sometimes there was a spontaneous combustion later in the day that threw her off, but the mornings were the real test. If Ms. Hayes and Mr. Addison came in cheerful—and in his case, fully dressed and relatively on time—she relaxed, knowing she would get all of her typing and filing done, and possibly even sneak in a few paragraphs on her mystery novel. (For Agnes, poetry came as naturally as speaking English: she just opened her mouth and the words flew out. But ever since her stint on J.B. Harland's Murder Train, she had burned to write an old-fashioned, heart-pounding thriller, complete with creepy atmosphere, enigmatic characters, and a few red herrings. Oh—and set in 15th-century Italy. Agnes liked a challenge.)

If, however, it was obvious by her employers' entrance that trouble was brewing—Ms. Hayes storming by in a huff; Mr. Addison late, unshaven, and/or in costume—Agnes would sigh, realizing that her day would be filled with soothing egos, smoothing over differences, and dispensing wisdom. She was both the glue that held Blue Moon together and the oil that greased its gears…not that anyone recognized that, she thought a little ruefully.

But Ms. Hayes, nervous? Agnes wasn't sure what that portended. Ms. Hayes glanced at Mr. Addison's door (which Agnes had left open, the better to disperse the fumes), listened for something, and then raised her eyebrows at the receptionist.

Agnes shook her head. "Not in."

Ms. Hayes exhaled, and made a show of looking at her watch. "Well," she said dryly, as Agnes handed over mail and messages, "I guess _one_ of us has to do some work." Agnes thought she sensed some relief under Ms. Hayes' apparent irritation.

She watched Ms. Hayes walk quickly into her office and shut the door. Then her eyes lit on Herbert Viola, who was gazing after the boss with combined eagerness and indignation.

What did it all mean?

She puzzled over it for a minute, but then inspiration hit: an unexpected, yet plausible way to put Catriona in the path of the ruggedly handsome (but ominously named) Count Malefico—and plot possibilities temporarily eclipsed the office enigma.

The morning flew by. Her writing had to be shelved for more routine problems: the water delivery was late, an important paperclip order had gone astray, and she had to fix the copier and mediate a stapler skirmish.

Then the phone rang.

"Blue Moon Detective Agency," she began.  
"Who can we find for you today?  
Somebody from your past?  
The one who got away?  
A prom date, a blind date, a Cinderella in heels  
Who stole your heart…or maybe your wheels?  
We'll search high and low,  
Both near and so far,  
To uncover your lost love,  
Or at least your lost car."

"Um…Maddie Hayes, please," said a friendly, but very masculine, voice.

A man? Who was _not_ Mr. Addison? Calling Ms. Hayes? The plot thickened. "Can I tell her who's calling?" Agnes asked. Maybe it was the water salesman.

"Oh, sure…it's Sam."

"Sam?" _Just_ Sam? Not the Culligan man, then.

"Yep, Sam." Now the voice held a hint of laughter.

"One moment," she hesitated, buzzing Ms. Hayes. "Ms. Hayes? There's a 'Sam' on line one for you."

"Oh! Thanks, Agnes." Ms. Hayes sounded…_perky_.

Five minutes later, she left her office smiling, and sailed out Blue Moon's front door. "I'm off to lunch, Agnes. Be back in awhile," she threw over her shoulder.

"But Ms. Hayes—" Agnes protested.

Ms. Hayes stopped, holding the door open. "Yes?"

"Mr. Addison still isn't in. Don't you want me to call him, or—or something?"

Ms. Hayes' face clouded over. "No."

"No?"

"_No_," she said definitely. "Now, may I go, Agnes?"

"OK," Agnes said, dejected. "Have a…good time." But Ms. Hayes had already rounded the corner on her way to the elevator.

Three hours later, Mr. Addison was still not in, and Ms. Hayes was still out. With, Agnes supposed, the reason for Ms. Hayes' smile: the mysterious Sam.

This couldn't be good.

Agnes had a plan—not a very specific plan, more a general, this-is-a-good-idea kind of plan. A plan she had concocted in the early months of Blue Moon's existence, amidst the first slamming doors and case arguments and sparks flying everywhere. Next to her novel, this plan was her most cherished goal. Mr. Addison and Ms. Hayes _belonged_ together.

And it had only become clearer to her in the past year. _She_ had booked Mr. Addison's flight to Argentina, when he went to help Ms. Hayes catch her shyster accountant. _She_ had seen Ms. Hayes' ads in the paper, when Mr. Addison was on the run: "Please come home. We love you and miss you." And the way they looked at each other at Christmastime, when Ms. Hayes came back to the office that night…well, the only question was how the two of them could be so blind to something so obvious.

It was lucky they had her. They would never know how many times she, Agnes, would seize the opportunity to push them along, would send the employees home a little early (and leave herself) so they would be alone, or stop someone from knocking when they were behind closed doors.

Up to now, though, she hadn't taken any more definite action; she had been waiting to see whether they would figure it out on their own. But now…it looked like there might be competition. Competition that might not be bad, if Mr. Addison were here to see it. But he _wasn't_ here, and he was leaving the field free for this "Sam" to move in on _his_ Ms. Hayes.

Agnes didn't want to see that happen.

But _where_ was Mr. Addison?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Agnes was on a rare late-afternoon bathroom break when Bert snuck into Mr. Addison's office to make the call.

He was still riding a high composed of sleep deprivation, too much caffeine, and the stimulant of meeting a real live G-man. Ed Scharlock…now _there_ was a guy. Oh, not that he didn't admire Mr. Addison—self-made, gutsy, a man who lived by his instincts and was wise in the ways of (most) women. He could learn a lot from Mr. Addison. But Ed Scharlock, a genuine FBI agent, someone who had run the gauntlet at Quantico, someone who had the latest detecting technology at his fingertips…well. It was pretty heady, working a case with a guy like that.

Based in part on Bert's information, they had tracked Joan Tenowich to Las Vegas, and Mr. Addison had flown there early that morning. The trail died out at the airport, however, and a search for her on the guest lists of the major hotels had so far proven fruitless. But an hour ago, Bert had gotten a lucky break.

He was nearly overwhelmed with excitement. This was real detective work, putting his considerable deductive prowess, honed over years of studying accounts, to good use. Not only that, but he was actually involved in solving a crime…assisting the FBI…helping to bring a known murderer to justice. In his own way, he was—his chest puffed out at the thought—working to preserve the American dream.

Bert sat down at Mr. Addison's desk. He took a moment to enjoy the feel of it: the comfortable black leather; the polished expanse, unbroken by petty files or paperwork. He pulled himself closer in the wheeled chair. His hand slipped, and he accidentally knocked over a Godzilla figurine. Picking it up sheepishly, he set it beside his case notes and started dialing.

"Caesar's Palace. How may I direct your call?"

"David Addison's room, please." Bert took a deep breath, quickly skimming the notes.

"Yep?"

"Mr. Addison? It's me," Bert whispered.

"Gee, and here I was hoping it was Ed McMahon. Speak up, Herbert, and tell me what you've got."

Bert cleared his throat. "Well, sir, one of my cousins works for the Nevada Gaming Commission. Apparently, a woman matching our suspect's description lost a fair sum at the MGM Grand two weeks ago, so the NGC decided to keep tabs on her. One of their agents spotted her at the airport this morning and tailed her to the Flamingo, where she checked in under the name—" Bert checked his notes—"Deirdre Johnson."

David sounded surprised at the depth of Bert's information. "Nice work, Bertie my boy."

"Thank you, sir. It was no trouble at all," said Bert expansively. He swung around, tilting the desk chair back.

"Better call your new friend Sherlock and get him up here."

"You're sure I couldn't…"

"Hey—haven't you just proven your worth there at Command Central? I need you to stay put."

Bert didn't hear the door open behind him.

"Yes, sir. So, you think you'll secure her this evening?" He chuckled appreciatively at David's slightly off-color response. "You're right, sir…the night is _definitely_ made for that kind of work!"

"Mr. Vi-_ola_!"

His feet came down with a thud; he turned in the chair to see a livid Ms. Hayes. At the same time, the phone went dead as Mr. Addison hung up abruptly.

"Ms. Hayes," he began nervously, putting the handset back in its cradle.

"Was that Mr. Addison?"

He couldn't be sure how much she'd heard, but he thought that much must've been obvious. "Yes, ma'am."

She folded her arms. "And where exactly _is_ Mr. Addison?"

This question placed him in a quandary. Mr. Addison had expressly told Bert not to divulge his whereabouts to _anyone_ at Blue Moon, especially not Ms. Hayes. Bert wasn't certain why, but Mr. Addison had been insistent that it would "compromise the integrity of the investigation." On the other hand, Ms. Hayes was the one who signed the checks…

Then he remembered what Mr. Addison had told him yesterday about Ms. Hayes wanting to nab the terrorist on her own. No. His duty was clear: he must protect the information, protect Mr. Addison, protect Ms. Hayes from herself…even if it cost him his job.

He gulped. "I'm afraid…I'm not at liberty to say." Glancing back up at Ms. Hayes, he lifted his arm to ward off her glare.

"I see," she bit out. Bert slid down a little in the desk chair, fully expecting gale-force wrath. Her jaw was set and her eyes darkened, but to his surprise, she turned on her heel and stalked out the door without another word. He braced himself as—SLAM—the office walls shook.

He slumped down, head in his hands. At least he hadn't been fired…yet.

Moments later, the door opened gingerly. "Mr. Addison?" Agnes called softly into the gloom.

Bert's head shot up. Shocked, Agnes stopped in mid-tiptoe. "Herbert? What are _you_ doing in here?"

Her accusatory tone put him on the defensive. "Some work for Mr. Addison," he said brusquely.

She eyed him with suspicion. "What kind of work? And why are you in his office?"

Bert drew himself up to his full height of five feet, five inches. "I can't tell you that."

Palms flat on the desk, Agnes ignored his response. "And WHAT did you say to Ms. Hayes to make her storm out of here?"

He stood firm, though he leaned back on his heels just a bit. "I can't really say, Agnes. I'm sorry—it's confidential."

The receptionist arched over the desk threateningly. "You can't say, huh? Well, listen, J. Edgar—" she poked him in the chest—"I've been here a lot longer than _you_"—she stabbed at him again—"and if there's going to be any confidentiality around here, I wanna know about it!"

She stood up, folding her arms in unconscious imitation of a certain lady boss, and saying with Hayes-like disdain, "Is there a woman involved?"

Bert's silence spoke clearly.

Agnes walked around the desk, closing the space between them so quickly that Bert tumbled back into the black chair. She stood over him, hands on her hips, hazel eyes flashing. She suddenly looked to Bert like an avenging angel—for a moment, he could swear he saw a halo atop her brown curls.

"Herbert Viola, if you have been encouraging him in some kind of ridiculous scheme…Do you have _any_ idea what I've been through with those two? And we were so close! Then this 'Sam' starts calling, and Mr. Addison disappears with some floozy…"

Bert forgot his promise to Mr. Addison, his vow to protect…he could think only of the fire-lit woman in front of him, rendered beautiful by her righteous anger. He hastened to reassure her. "It's not what you think, Agnes. It's a case."

"A what?"

"A case. It's top-secret. Not even Ms. Hayes knows."

Agnes wasn't buying it. "Nice try, _Mr_. Viola. No new cases have come in for at least the past week."

Herbert boosted himself from the chair, lowering his voice. "This is something that just came up last night. Mr. Addison and I were doing some…surveillance…when we—well, really, _me_—" he couldn't resist—"stumbled on this case."

"Why doesn't Ms. Hayes know about it?"

Bert hesitated. "Mr. Addison has his reasons—good ones, I swear!" He took hold of her elbows. "Please, Agnes, I need you to keep this on the QT until I get the OK from the boss…it's in Blue Moon's best interests," he added, hoping this would convince her.

Agnes looked back at him. Her expression was still fierce, but her tone was marginally softer. "All right, Herbert. I'll give you ONE day."

Bert exhaled in relief—he could just kiss her—he knew he could count on her, dear, sweet Dipesto! He leaned in, just a little. "Agnes…"

She took hold of his tie. "Save it for tomorrow," she said, giving it a quick yank that left him gasping. He watched bemused as she strode quickly back to her desk.

What a woman!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Overdue appreciation to Julia and Connie for "great great" beta-ing...you girls are the best.

**Chapter Five**

Maddie steamed back into her office, swinging the door closed with a force that left the hinges squeaking in protest. Sending her pumps flying, she flopped down on the couch, only to push herself up again to pace the room.

"That MAN!" she exclaimed, her hands balling into fists. "How dare he? How DARE he?"

How dare he what?

How dare he come to her house in the middle of the night, kiss her for all he was worth, and then storm out? How dare he spend the following day (and the rest of the previous night too, for all she knew) getting up to what was undoubtedly no good? How dare he abdicate his responsibilities, without even the courtesy of a phone call? And how dare he confide his debauched exploits to one of her employees?

"YES!" she cried aloud, folding her arms and kicking at one of her shoes.

Ouch! The pain in her toe brought her to her senses. _Get ahold of yourself, Maddie_, she thought. _Sit down, finish up that paperwork...don't let that ridiculous excuse for a partner get to you._

She made her way determinedly to her desk, stopping short as she saw the red rose sitting in its vase on her credenza. On her way out the door this morning, she had picked it up. It was still plump and pretty, in spite of a night spent on the entry floor; for some reason, she had felt compelled to bring it to the office.

She took hold of it now, intending to fling it into the trash can, vase and all...but something stopped her. Sinking down into her desk chair, she felt her anger ebb a little, to be replaced by genuine confusion.

David. He was such a puzzle. One minute, she was sure there was something there, something beyond friendship or office camaraderie, even more than the kind of bond created by late-night stakeouts and frequent proximity to death. Sometimes there was a look in his green eyes just for her, something warm and hopeful and tender.

But just as often, he would spin an emotional beat between them into sarcasm or innuendo. He never let it play out, never revealed more than a glimpse of what she might mean to him.

Well, almost never.

There had been one time, in a dusty garage, about a year ago...they had hurled themselves at each other, full of apocalyptic, I-might-never-see-you-again fear.

But he brushed it off once the danger was over and he came back. "Just a little goodbye kiss," he had said. _Fine_, she had thought, and refused to recognize the deflating feeling that was definitely _not_ disappointment.

And now? If he really felt...something...for her—if he wasn't just playing games, stepping casually over the line between suggestion and action—then he should've _talked_ to her instead of showing up at midnight dressed like an urban Zorro. They could've had a mature discussion, like adults, perhaps over a nice dinner...candlelight...wine...

But no. Instead...well. Maddie's pulse quickened, remembering the feeling of being overwhelmed, of falling almost, but more than that, the blotting out of all rational thought and awareness of anything beyond purely physical sensation: the wet leather of his jacket; the sharpness of the zipper under her fingers; the slightly scratchy feel of his cheek; his arms hard and strong around her.

The door, the foyer, the rain splashing outside...it was all gone. It was only the two of them, melding together, and underneath it a sudden searing hunger for _more_. He might've moved back, broken the kiss; but she pulled him even closer, almost panicky in her need. It had been wild...uncontrollable...primitive, even.

And exactly what she'd told him she wanted—just before he'd refused to listen any more.

_But what_, a little voice in her head whispered, _would've happened if Sam hadn't come down?_ Would she have pitched prudence and consideration aside and jumped into bed with David (or even—a shudder ran through her—succumbed right there on the tile floor)? Or would her habit of self-control have kicked in?

She didn't know. And that scared the hell out of her.

* * *

"That's a heck of a dress, Ms. Hayes."

Maddie spun around to face him and was momentarily flustered. She had forgotten how good he looked in a tuxedo, his smile slightly bashful, his blue eyes sparkling down at her.

She tried to rally. "This old thing?" she demurred, fluttering her lashes in a mock Southern-belle imitation.

He laughed and put a hand over his heart. "Be careful, Maddie. A look like that—could be deadly in a room full of physics geeks and military guys."

Maddie's lips curved in a slow smile. She was flirting with him, and she knew it. Maybe she shouldn't, but it felt so good to get dressed up and be made much of—so soothing to be complimented without irony. With David, she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She hadn't intended to come tonight. Sam had invited her over lunch...a delightful lunch, full of laughter and carefree conversation. Sam told her stories of his space shuttle missions with a wry humor that only underscored his obvious competence and courage. In turn, she shared some of Blue Moon's more bizarre cases with him, realizing as she did that she and David actually sounded like genuine detectives.

The only awkward moment came when the discussion turned to relationships. She teased him about waves of women falling at his feet at the mere mention of the word "astronaut." With characteristic modesty, he played it down.

"Now, c'mon, Maddie, you know me—I always was a one-woman guy." The look he gave her pierced her lightheartedness for a minute. There was a pretty clear message there, if she chose to see it.

"So what about you, Ms. Hayes?" he asked softly, spinning the salt shaker. "Been breaking hearts all over L.A., I suppose."

Maddie rolled her eyes. "Hardly."

"But what about—sorry, none of my business," Sam held up a hand, interrupting himself. Nonetheless, Maddie knew that both of them were thinking about a certain...display...in her foyer.

She felt like she owed him some explanation, though she didn't understand it herself. And really, what was there to say? David had taken off, hadn't bothered to show up for work, or even make an excuse. And far be it from her to guess what was going on in the jumble of fast-talking jive, inappropriate comments, and Motown tunes that David Addison called a brain.

"No, it's fine," Maddie replied with studied breeziness. "Last night...I don't know _what_ that was. David—he just—" she shook her head. "Anyway, we're not...together."

"O-K. Good to know," Sam sipped his wine and smiled a little. A complicit look passed between them: they were both going to pretend that Maddie's response adequately clarified things.

"Did I tell you what my mom heard about Melody Lockhart?" Sam asked, maneuvering the conversation into safer waters; in this case, a little snippet about a high-school classmate who, jealous of Maddie's burgeoning career, hadn't hesitated to spread wildly untrue rumors about Maddie's relationship with her math tutor.

She relaxed then, enjoying a good gossip about old friends (and enemies) over coffee and dessert. As they were leaving, Sam turned to her.

"So, I have this NASA thing tonight—dinner, speeches, a little dancing...It'll be deadly boring, probably, but it's at the Beverly Hills Hotel...have any interest in joining me?"

He was giving her his fail-safe grin, but Maddie suddenly felt tired. She wasn't sure she'd make it through the rest of the afternoon in the office, much less a long evening. And besides, she wasn't intending to start things up with Sam again. She shouldn't lead him on.

So she gave him an apologetic refusal, which he accepted equably.

But later that day, after overhearing Bert's conversation with David, after brooding about it in her office, she picked up the phone. Maybe she wasn't so tired after all...

Now, she put her hand in Sam's and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, where a quartet played a waltz.

She settled herself into his arms and sighed. She had thought it would feel strange, being close to him like this, but it didn't. They moved with the ease of familiarity; Maddie couldn't count the number of times they'd danced together over the years: high school prom, college formals, even some of her parents' Christmas parties, when the eggnog was flowing fairly freely and the couches got pushed against the wall.

Dancing with Sam was comfortable...it was nice. Unlike dancing with David—or, indeed, being in any kind of close proximity to him. She felt self-conscious, too aware of his quirking smile, his capable hands, and her own breathing; the air felt charged, as though objects nearby might ignite at any moment.

No. She would _not_ think about him. She was having a fine evening, and she wouldn't let him ruin it, especially when he was probably, at that very moment, "securing" his flavor of the night in some rundown juke joint. By way of a sendoff, she telegraphed a silent message to him: _this_ was how normal people danced, amongst other twirling couples in elegant surroundings, rather than alone in a seedy bar at three o'clock in the afternoon. She nearly added "so there," but stopped herself just in time.

"I've missed this," Sam whispered in her ear. "I've missed _you_, Maddie."

She raised her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes: clear, uncomplicated, full of an affection he was willing to acknowledge. Maybe safe and comfortable was better than wild and reckless...maybe the known was better than the unknown.

"I've missed you, too, Sam." She let her fingertips graze the back of his neck.

_Maybe _this_ is what I need_, she thought, as her eyes closed and her lips met his.

_Yes_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

David spotted Joan Tenowich (aka Deirdre Johnson) instantly, in spite of having only the briefest glimpse of her at Metropolis. Her blond hair, freed from the stolen hat, spilled over the back of her cocktail dress; it glowed in the light from the tiny lamps in the casino bar. And as she turned her head to smile at the awkward advances of the man next to her, David could see once again that her profile was flawless: elegant, yet damn sexy.

She sure didn't look like a murderess. Still, if that face was the last image you ever saw...what a way to go!

He pulled up the sleeves of his sweater (he hadn't packed right, had forgotten how hot it was in Vegas, even in March; luckily, it seemed like the entire town was air-conditioned) and stepped over to the bar, a few stools down from the _femme fatale_.

He motioned the bartender over. "Beer, please." Then, leaning closer, he asked in a low tone, "What's Aphrodite over there drinking?"

"Nothing, so far as I can tell. I wouldn't waste your time—she's had at least five guys send over chardonnay and champagne, and she's sent back every one."

"Well," David drawled, "maybe they don't know what the lady likes. Let's try a martini, very cold, two olives."

The bartender shrugged. "OK...it's your five bucks." He mixed the drink and set it down in front of Joan, gesturing to David as he did.

Joan looked down at the martini glass and wrapped her long fingers around its stem. Lifting it to her red-slicked lips, she took a slow sip, then paused.

He half-smiled as she turned to him and raised the glass in a small salute. The bartender rolled his eyes; David grinned back, took a long pull on his beer. And waited.

"How did you know?" She slid onto the barstool next to him. He had to admire her leisurely grace: she was remarkably relaxed, considering she had shot her husband only 24 hours ago.

"Well, you didn't look like a chardonnay or champagne kinda lady. More...sophisticated." He'd nearly said "dangerous."

"Not the drink," she paused to sip again, "though it is delicious. How did you know I always take two olives?"

David let his eyes sweep over her, lingering on her lovely mouth. He shrugged a little. "I just didn't think one would be enough."

And they were off.

The conversation flowed, and David kept Joan well-supplied with martinis, though she didn't seem to be feeling their effects. She didn't get wobbly or giggly, just, if possible, more languid.

The plan was for David to talk her into leaving with him. Once they were outside, the Feds would take her off his hands. Their preference would've been to bust into the bar as soon as they knew she was there, but the casino didn't cotton to that idea—thought it might be bad for business to have a beautiful young woman dragged off by a bunch of gun-toting suits. Since the suits were secretly working on a sting that involved this very casino, they had no choice but to comply.

David knew he was the perfect choice to play stool pigeon: he was, after all, incredibly charming (if he did say so), and Joan Tenowich didn't know him from Adam. She seemed, however, to have a sixth sense for recognizing government officials; apparently, she had bolted from the Metropolis so quickly because she had spotted Ed Scharlock.

At the moment, though, it looked like David had things well in hand. She was still drinking, and was warming up to him, if her bedroom eyes were any indication. So he was taken aback when she asked, "What are you running from, baby?"

He tried to cover his surprise. "Why would you say that?" he asked with as much offhand brio as he could muster.

"You've got that look—kind of hunted, or haunted, or something."

He felt his control over the situation slipping. Was she just needling him? Or was the jig up? Did she somehow know that _he_ was hunting _her_?

He shook it off. Nah, she was just in her cups; besides, she was wrong. He wasn't running from anything. This case—this very _lucrative_ case—had come up and had necessitated his leaving L.A. The fact that it had also spared him the morning-after agony of Maddie's wrath, or, even worse, her apology for her paramour's excellent right hook, was just a bonus.

He laughed shortly. "Hunted, huh?" Took another up-and-down glance. "Lady, I'd let you hunt me any day of the week. Hell, I'd jump into the net myself."

Joan gave him an enigmatic smile. "So who is she?"

"Who is who?" he parried.

"_She_—the girl—the woman—who made you run?"

David started to protest again when she riveted him with her electric-blue gaze. Those eyes...so like Maddie's...only where Maddie's could range from icy to fiery in a matter of seconds, Joan's were merely hypnotizing. It reminded him of someone...

Almost against his will, certainly against his better judgment, David found himself telling Joan the whole story, from his argument with Maddie in her office to his connection with Sam's fist. Joan watched him throughout with a sympathetic, yet detached expression. It was almost as if she knew exactly what he was going to say.

Kaa. She reminded him of Kaa, the snake from that _Jungle Book_ movie—less ridiculous, of course, and those eyes...gorgeous, but deadly. He could sorta see how a man might get himself killed if he crossed her. In any case, when he finished his sorry little tale, Joan was silent for a moment, considering. Then—

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Sure he hit me?" He touched a spot, still tender, on his jaw. "It wasn't a figment of my imagination, honey."

She stroked his cheek. "Of course not, baby," she said soothingly. David fought the instinct to slap her hand away; no point in giving up the game now. "I meant, are you sure they slept together?"

David was affronted. "I didn't catch them _in flagrante_, but what the hell else could it be? The man was barely dressed...he came down the stairs—"

"From her bedroom?"

Jesus, this woman could teach those G-men a little something about interrogation—or prosecution, at the very least.

"Yeah, from her—" he thought a minute. Maddie _did_ have a guest room, right next door to her own. "But why would a strange guy be sleeping in her guest room?"

Joan shrugged. "A relative, maybe?"

_No way_, he thought. It was too much of a coincidence, even for him and Maddie, that a long-lost family member would cross her path on the same night she went out looking for Mr. Anonymous.

On the other hand, it might explain why Maddie had kissed him…if Joan was right, it opened up all kinds of possibilities. Ones he might not be ready to face.

He turned dazed eyes back to Joan.

"Poor baby," she cooed, picking up her purse. "Come on—you look like you could use some air."

She didn't know the half of it.

* * *

"Another Bloody Mary, sir?" The flight attendant stood over him, smiling as she twirled his empty vodka bottle.

"No, thanks." One was enough, just to give him something to do for a few minutes. He had to be in top form when he got back to Blue Moon. Which should be in—he checked his watch—about two hours.

He patted his shirt pocket, hearing the satisfying crinkle of the check inside. Ahh, he was going to enjoy this, going to enjoy waltzing into Maddie's office laden with the gratitude of the U.S. government.

He wondered what her reaction would be; the possibilities were pretty wide-ranging, depending on the day. Of course, she might be miffed that he had taken the case without her approval, but surely she'd be appeased by the number of zeroes he'd brought back. He even allowed himself a brief image of her expressing her gratitude…_sans_ words.

But was that what he wanted? Did he want Joan to be right—for "Sam" to be explained away, as a second cousin or fellow model? Admittedly, he hadn't exactly thought through the "after" scenario when he came up with his "sexy stranger" plan. What did he and Maddie have, anyway?

Chemistry…he knew that much. He had wanted her since the first time she slapped him, which, if he recalled correctly, was about 20 minutes after she walked into his office for the first time. And she felt it too—their kiss in the garage had set off some serious sparks, but the other night had been like the beginning of a nuclear meltdown. David felt the heat rise in him at the memory of her response, as though she couldn't get enough. It was so unexpected, so anti-Maddie.

And so very…"sexy" didn't even cover it. "Sexy" was fun, "sexy" was "thanks-I'll-call-you." "Sexy" was physical. _This_ was feeling on every level, a vortex of sensation; _this_ wasn't something you snuck out on or left in the morning. It felt like a promise. Like a commitment. If they hadn't been interrupted…

Wait—did he want a commitment? With Maddie?

He supposed, in some ways, he was already committed to her. She was a close (maybe his closest) friend; she knew things about him that no one else did. She had seen some of his triumphs, and some of his royal screwups, too. He could make her laugh—he loved making her laugh, she was so goddamned beautiful…

She had stuck with him in this crazy business for two years, even when it looked like they'd never make it, even when her house—her _house_—was on the line. And he'd never forget how she came to New York for Jimmy's funeral, because she "thought she could help." He remembered her sitting on the hotel bed, eyes shining with tears, as he told her about Tess and the baby they'd lost. He was pretty sure he could've turned to her for comfort that night—something opened between them then, only to close the next day when he wouldn't take her to the funeral.

He'd been too proud, and too scared, and too…_stupid_, he realized, as the plane touched down with a jolt.

Yeah, he wanted her. Not just the silk nightgown, or the luscious figure, or the million-dollar hair—but _her_, all of her, the insults and the slamming and the soft looks and the head on his shoulder.

God, he hoped Sam was her cousin.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this, folks...but heeeere's Sammy! This is my first shot at writing from his POV (thanks to bees for the idea, BTW), and I'd love to know what you think--good, bad, or truly awful. ;)

**Chapter Seven**

Sam woke up and looked around. Maddie's guest room. Not exactly where he'd hoped to be this morning, but close. Definitely close.

Last night had been...well, it'd been great. As they embraced on the dance floor, he could feel all the familiar responses kick in: her cheeks flushed, her body grew warm, she sighed slightly into him.

They had shared several more kisses after that, including a pretty passionate one in her entryway (he tried not to think about what had gone on there the night before). He didn't push things further, though—he knew Maddie would want a little time to think.

So he was the perfect gentleman. He'd kissed her one last time, told her how beautiful she was, and then headed upstairs, leaving Maddie looking after him.

Now, subdued rustling was coming from next door. He leaped out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt and jeans. Maddie had never been much of a cook; surely she'd appreciate some breakfast.

The coffeemaker was already burbling when she came down. "Oh, you're a lifesaver." She bussed his cheek and looked at her watch before taking a sip. "Mmmm...I've got to go." She set down the mug, grabbing her purse.

Catching her around the waist, he pulled her closer. "Hey, don't I get a goodbye kiss?"

She complied. "Well, have a good day, dear," he joked, in his best June Cleaver imitation.

Was it him, or did her laughter sound a little nervous?

* * *

He hadn't been to a conference in a long time, and now he remembered why: scientists, astrophysicists in particular, _loved_ to talk. And talk. And talk. Unfortunately, most of them didn't do it well. Sam scanned the room, taking in a field of glazed eyes, hoping that he'd have a livelier audience when it was his turn.

In the next seat was a slim brunette, sort of bookishly attractive in a crisp white shirt and black trousers. She smiled at him; she wasn't paying attention to the speaker either, judging by the equations and sketches that covered her conference-issued notepad. They looked like roughs of a new type of O-ring, he noted. Intriguing.

_Eyes on the prize, Sammy_, he thought, reminding himself of the real reason he was in L.A.: it was time to find a wife, and there was only one person he could imagine in that capacity.

Miss Madelyn Hayes. The first time he had seen her was in church; he and his parents had moved in down the street from the Hayes' just the day before. Mr. Hayes, who was ushering that Sunday, greeted them as they came into the sanctuary.

"Well, now, aren't you our new neighbors? Here, you must meet my wife...Virginia? This is the..."

"Crawfords," Sam's dad supplied. "Bill, my wife Marion, and this is our boy Sam."

Sam was shaking hands with a pretty blond-haired lady when Mr. Hayes said, "Maddie? Meet Sam."

She was picture-perfect, like a lifesize doll: her pink skirt splayed out on the pew and her blond hair tumbling down in corkscrew curls (created, Sam learned later, by Maddie sleeping all night with her hair bound up in rags). White-gloved hands were folded meekly in her lap, and she sat very still, but yet…there was a kind of animal energy there, as though she might suddenly leap up and bolt down the aisle to freedom.

He sat down next to her and couldn't resist pulling softly on one of those curls, just to watch it spring back up.

The look from her cornflower-blue eyes started a fire in his gut that had never really gone out, and he blurted the first thing that came to mind: "Bet you can't climb to the top of my oak tree."

"Watch me," she whispered vehemently.

And sure enough, by the time he got home and changed into playclothes, there she was, feet wedged in the crook of the topmost branch, somehow even prettier in rolled-up jeans and a red shirt, with a smudge on her cheek and pollen in her curls.

She grinned down at him and then disappeared. Before he knew it, she was jumping lightly down onto the grass beside him.

"Told you I could! Now _you_ do it!"

So Sam hurried up the tree as fast as he could go...but missed his footing on a crucial branch, and fell through the leaves to land, very painfully, at Maddie's feet.

She signed his arm cast and brought him cookies every day for a week afterward. He gave her his six-year-old heart, and never bothered to take it back again.

Sam blinked back to the present day just as the lecturer was finishing. Smiling at the memory, he checked his watch and realized he had enough time to make a quick visit to Century City before his own presentation.

He traded waves with the brunette as he hurried out of the lecture hall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Is there someone who bugs you,  
Who gives you a shiver?  
A maid with a loose screw?  
A co-worker who quivers?

Is your mailman quite creepy  
He's there and then gone?  
Your neighbor a freaky  
Who sings until dawn?

Let us check 'em out  
Save you the trouble.  
And if we find two,  
We won't charge you—"

Agnes hung up quickly as Ms. Hayes finally came through the door. It was 9:52 am.

She looked…tired, Agnes thought. But not tired in a depressed way. Tired in a had-a-good-time way. And in fact, as she leafed through her messages, Ms. Hayes actually yawned.

Agnes couldn't help herself. "Tough night?" she asked, turning on the sympathy. "When I can't sleep, I count the cracks in my ceiling—there're 78. Oh, and warm milk…with Kahlua."

Ms. Hayes looked up, amused. "It wasn't that I couldn't sleep. I was just out too late," she shrugged.

"Not another stakeout, was it? You shouldn't do that by yourself."

Ms. Hayes raised an eyebrow; Agnes would have to tread carefully. "No, Agnes, not a stakeout. I was at a…." she waved her hand vaguely, "…thing."

"A fun thing?" Agnes pressed, plastering on her most innocent smile.

"Agnes—" Ms. Hayes began, sounding irritated. Then she softened, remembering something. "Yes, it was fun. Now—is Mr. Addison in?"

"Not yet."

Ms. Hayes took a long look at Mr. Addison's door before squaring her shoulders. "Fine!" she declared.

Agnes was hesitant. "Fine?" She didn't think so.

"FINE!"

The staff battened down the hatches for the coming storm, but Ms. Hayes just grabbed her briefcase and marched into her office, closing the door with a deliberate "click."

Mr. Addison was in _big_ trouble.

* * *

As he came through the door, the unnatural hush hit Bert right between the eyes. His head swiveled, taking in the apprehensive quiver of O'Neill's mustache, and the way Kris gripped her nail file.

Then Agnes grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him to Mr. Addison's office. "I know I'm a little late—" he blundered, stumbling alongside her.

She shut the door and pinned him with a basilisk stare. "Time's up, Herbert."

"Wha-at?"

"I gave you ONE day. Time's up…WHERE is Mr. Addison?"

He tried to smooth out a crease—this was his best suit! "Oh, Agnes. You don't need to worry about Mr. Addison. He's a man of the world…he can take care of himse—OOF!"

Agnes shoved him up against the door. "Where—is—he?"

Bert looked into those greeny-brown eyes and, once again, was lost. He told her everything, from the Metropolis on through Mr. Addison's victorious phone call at one o'clock that morning. Naturally, he had to tell her about his part in the operation, and was rewarded with a glimpse of admiration.

Mr. Addison would understand. And the case was all sewn up, anyway.

If he could have predicted Agnes' reaction, Bert would have risked a lot more than his boss' displeasure. She threw her arms around him and smacked a kiss on his cheek, then broke away and did a little dance. "This is great—GREAT!" she sang. "He followed her…he wasn't with a bimbo…GREAT!"

She finally stopped dancing, and started pacing. "Now, if we can just fix Ms. Hayes…"

"Agnes, what are you talking about?"

"When will he be in?" she asked, all business again.

He checked his watch. "Uh, in about two hours, I think."

"Not a moment too soon," she said decidedly.

Bert shook his head. He had the distinct feeling he was missing something.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: In case you were wondering, this chapter represents the midpoint of our story...enjoy! :)

**Chapter Nine**

The receptionist's eyes widened when she saw the huge bouquet that preceded him into Blue Moon. When he told her his name, she seemed startled, but buzzed Maddie competently enough.

Maddie met him at the door. "This is a surprise," she commented—good or bad, he wasn't sure—but her face lit up when she saw the flowers. "Sam! They're beautiful!"

He tried to kiss her, but she leaned around the open door at the same time, so he ended up with his lips in the general vicinity of her hair. "Agnes!" she called. "Can you put these in water for me?"

Agnes took the bouquet, holding it rather far out in front of her as she returned to her desk. "It won't explode—I promise," he joked. She looked at him oddly; then the corners of her mouth just barely turned up.

_Not much of a sense of humor, I guess_, he thought, as he followed Maddie into the office and shut the door behind him.

* * *

David swung into Blue Moon wearing his best suit and feeling good….so good, in fact, he had to pay inexact tribute to the Great Mr. Brown himself.

He shimmied over to Agnes' desk, reaching a crescendo: "So good! So nice! I got youoooooooo! Bum—bum—bum—bum—BUM!"

"Mr. Addison! You're back!" she exclaimed.

Whipping off his sunglasses, he pointed them at her as he danced by. "Perceptive, Ms. DiPesto…that's why we pay you so well."

"But Mr. Addison—" Agnes started, as David reached for Maddie's door.

David held up one hand. "Not to worry, Agnes, I'm wearing my bulletproof ego," he declared, turning the doorknob…

* * *

"So…what's the most beautiful girl in town got planned tonight?" Sam twirled her hair around one finger as they sat on the couch.

Maddie tilted her head. Flowers…compliments…he did it right, she thought, sighing just a little. To cover herself, she leaned forward, kissing him gently. "Oh, I don't know…there's this astronaut who wants me to go out with him…"

Sam rolled his eyes. "_Those_ guys…egomaniacs, every last one." His eyes twinkled at her; then he cupped her cheek in his hand. "Seriously, I'd like to take you someplace…really special."

Maddie felt a trickle of apprehension. Special? What could that mean? _It means he wants to take you someplace fabulous…someplace you'd never go with—stop it!_ she told herself severely. Smiling at Sam, she replied, "That could probably be—"

She started in surprise as the door burst open.

* * *

He charged into Maddie's office in rapid-fire excuse mode. "Now, I know I've been AWOL the last few days—" He stopped abruptly, realizing her mauve desk chair was empty.

"David!" she exclaimed, and jumped up from the couch, just as he turned around. They very nearly collided in the middle of the office floor. A foot apart, they stood locked for a moment in mutual scrutiny, each trying to gauge the intentions of the other.

Sam cleared his throat and leaned around Maddie, offering David his hand to shake. "Hey...sorry about the other night," he said, in a tone suggesting sheepish embarrassment.

Maddie shook her head to clear it. "David Addison, Sam Crawford." She tried to sound nonchalant, but managed only awkward with a hint of desperate.

"Sam," David nodded as the two men shook. "Nice right hook you've got there."

They all laughed then. David rocked back, hands in his pockets; Sam touched Maddie's waist lightly. Silence yawned until Maddie announced, "Sam and I grew up together!" It had the overbright air of an explanation given to a very small child.

David nodded again and looked from Sam to Maddie, his lips twisted in what could conceivably be considered a smile. "Well...I don't want to interrupt the Auld Lang Syne." He pulled open the door. "I gotta lot to catch up on, I'm sure."

"But David—" Maddie interrupted, her voice a little shrill.

"S'OK, boss, when you're—" his eyes swept over them, standing close together—"done here, be sure to stop by. I still got some great excuses to run by you." He walked briskly across to his office, shutting the door behind him with such authority that the water in the cooler sloshed.

Maddie smiled weakly at Sam. "Where were we?"

He slid his arm around her waist, and said low, in her ear, "You were just about to agree to an amazing date with yours truly. Seven-thirty suit you?"

"Sure," she replied, faintly at first, but then more firmly. "Sure."

He kissed her cheek and was off. Maddie leaned against the closed door and sighed again.

* * *

Well, _that_ was interesting.

Sam shows up, David comes back, and she gets caught in the crossfire of an epic staredown. The three of them: Maddie, and the two men she'd kissed in the last two days.

Cozy.

She should be furious with David. She tried to work up a really good head of steam: he disappeared for two days! Without even calling! Selfish! Immature! Undependable! But that little tête-à-tête (à tête) had—temporarily—sapped her anger. She just felt…tired.

David looked good, she had to admit. Whatever he'd been up to the past 48 hours, it hadn't done him any harm. His suit was immaculate, his tie in its proper place, and his face clean-shaven: none of the usual signs of an Addison bender.

She supposed she should go plumb the mystery...but she further supposed that she would have to endure multiple barbed comments about what had happened in her foyer. David probably assumed, given Sam's sudden, half-dressed appearance, that she and Sam had been sharing more than a nightcap.

Maddie cringed. If David thought that, then what must he think of _her_ for kissing him with, let's face it, a fair degree of enthusiasm? She should set him straight...except that wasn't her relationship with Sam rapidly heading into the territory under assumption?

And that was another thing: Sam. Sam, with his 50s-housewife jokes and plans for a "very special" evening. He seemed to think that they would jump back into the relationship right where they'd left it. Was that what she wanted? Surely, after tonight's date, it'd be reasonable for him to expect a return to the intimacy they'd enjoyed years ago. But would sleeping with him mean committing to him?

Head in hands, Maddie sat slumped at her desk. How, exactly, had things gotten so complicated? Three days ago, she was living life simply, unencumbered by mixed emotions, veiled assumptions, or raised expectations. Her "reckless" night was supposed to be just that: one night, a few hours of tension-releasing sex with someone she never had to see again. Instead of which, she had two men looking to her for—something—and she didn't really know what to tell either of them.

_For God's sake, Maddie_. _This isn't _One Life to Live. _Just find out where the hell Addison has been and go on with your day. Let the men look out for themselves._

Thus determined, Maddie stalked over to David's office, knocked once, and went in. David was standing in his shirtsleeves, gazing out the window...without binoculars or telescope. It was such an unaccustomed sight that she stopped short.

"Who are you looking at?" she demanded.

He turned to her and waved one hand, palm up, to encompass the sprawling view. "Our Lady of Angels, Maddie. Sun, smog, starlets...she's a little plastic, but somehow she's still got character. Sin City is so _soulless_."

Unbelievable. The man had used a minor misunderstanding as an excuse to decamp to Gambling Central. And by the looks of it, he'd won, too. Damn him.

She folded her arms. "So...a little trip to Las Vegas? On a Wednesday? Great, David. _Very_ responsible." The sarcasm radiated off her in waves.

"Here—" he pulled a folded square of paper out of his shirt pocket—"put this in with the day's deposits."

"I don't want your winnings, David."

"Oh, ho, Ms. Hayes! Don't ruin your pumps jumping all the way to that conclusion." He sat down leisurely in his desk chair, tilting it back. Maddie recognized his look of self-satisfaction. "As it happens, that check was issued by the United States government. For services rendered," he finished with a flourish.

"I didn't know they were paying for excellence at craps."

He tipped forward, elbows on the desk, his gaze grown fierce. "I caught a murderer, Ms. Hayes. Murderess, actually."

She grabbed the check: $20,000. The amount left her momentarily stunned, and the little piece of paper fluttered back to the desk. "You were—in Las Vegas—on a case."

He nodded.

"A case that you accepted, on your own, without consulting me."

"Hey—the Feds insisted on total secrecy. I coulda told you, but I'd've had to...well, make sure you couldn't talk, anyway." That damn grin slid across his face.

"The 'Feds'? You're not saying you solved a case with the F.B.I.?"

He made a dismissive gesture. "With...for...it's all prepositions, these days."

The sense of exclusion, of neglect almost, came out of nowhere. But she clamped down on it quickly. She would not think about how exciting it would have been to work on a case for the F.B.I. She would not think about the lights and energy of Las Vegas, and staying over an extra day to lounge by the pool or see a show. And she definitely would not think about Buenos Aires, and David teaching her to play craps, and the fun the two of them had, away from everything.

While she was not thinking all of these things, she remembered the last time David had solved several cases "by himself." "I don't suppose you had a helper on this case—petite…blonde…hooker?"

"Try short, dark, and hairy."

"You asked _Mr. Viola_ to help you on this case?" Salt in the wound, that.

"_Mr. Viola_ found us this case."

"He's out soliciting business for Blue Moon now?"

"Blondie, if I were gonna send out a representative..." he looked at her pointedly, a certain gleam in his eyes. Why did she suddenly feel a little better? He continued, "Nah. Bertie and I were at—I mean, out for drinks the other night—and he kinda...fell into it."

So he and Herbert had been on a little binge, had they? Well, that might explain the whole mask-and-rose routine, she thought. Though he hadn't seemed drunk—certainly hadn't tasted of liquor—

She cut the thought off, but it was too late: the blush spread through her cheeks like a fever. Her heart hammered and she focused on her lap.

Swallowing hard, she looked up. David was leaning back in his chair again, cheek resting on the tips of his fingers. The familiar half-smile played on his lips, and he let the quiet stretch between them. Was he reading her thoughts? Wait—was he _laughing_ at her?

It was all some little game, was it? Her mouth narrowed in anger. _Fine_.

She gathered her dignity and stood up. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order...and thanks to Mr. Viola."

"Gee, Maddie, good to know your backhand's in good shape."

She bristled. "If you're digging for compliments—"

"From you? I know better." He held out the check. "I assume you'll be wanting this?"

She took it from him, barely brushing his fingertips; her eye caught the zeroes. It _was_ an impressive result for two days' work…work that had required no effort on her part.

"Thank you, David." She tried to sound gracious as she walked to the door. Then—

"Maddie."

She looked at him over her shoulder. Did he have something to say about the other night after all?

"See that Herbert gets a little something extra in his check, wouldja?"

"Of course," she clipped. Tossing her head, she headed back to her office and grabbed her things, barely pausing at Agnes' desk for messages on the way out.

She had a fabulous date to prepare for.

* * *

Damn, David thought, watching her stride off. Pride 1, Information...0. He had been so busy trying to impress Maddie with the Tenowich case that he'd failed to get the goods on one Sam Crawford, and his position in Maddie's life.

OK, he had seen them together, which was a start. He_ was_ a detective after all, trained to use details like puzzle pieces, putting them together to reveal the whole picture. Sam was well-dressed, but David would bet that his suit came off the rack; he'd worn no jewelry other than a rather complicated (and very functional-looking) watch. He had the sort of clean-cut good looks that shouted Middle America, and a good grip, too—strong, without being obviously brutal.

And he was unquestionably protective of Maddie: the hand that rested on Maddie's waist; the glint of steel in his eyes as he shook David's hand. A look of challenge—or maybe a warning.

And definitely _not_ a cousin, or relation of any kind. No, David was dealing with a far trickier specimen: the "Old Friend."

What exactly had Maddie said? "We grew up together." "Grew up": now there was a phrase that was open to interpretation, conjuring as it did visions of swingsets, stickball, and waiting for the ice cream man—as well as more "adult" rites of passage. He thought briefly of Tess and a certain rainy day. Could Maddie mean...

Aw, who the hell knew what Maddie meant?

David generally felt like he understood women. Knowing a bit about the female psyche had helped him solve a case here and there, and it certainly didn't hurt at the local bar, either. Even Tess and, later, Gillian, had been relatively easy to figure out, though that hadn't eased the hurt much.

But Maddie Hayes? An enigma if ever there was one. The woman had more facets than a diamond—just when he thought he could see her clear through, she turned another angle to the light and he was blinded.

Maddie wasn't giving anything away. Not about Sam, and not about the other night. He'd just have to get his information somewhere else.

He buzzed Agnes. "Ask Mr. Viola to come in here, would you? Oh, and hold all my calls."

Seconds later, Bert hustled in. "Mr. Addison, let me be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission."

"Couldn't have done it without you, Bertie. Or your cousin."

Bert looked down modestly, but couldn't suppress a small grin. "Well, Mr. Addison, you know I'll always serve Blue Moon to the best of my humble abilities."

David looked him over. He was pretty sure he could get Bert on board, but it might require some finesse. David leaned forward, his expression intensifying, his tone serious. "I'm glad you feel that way. As it happens, I—we—might require your services one more time."

Bert grabbed a chair and practically fell into it. In hushed tones, he asked, "Does the Bureau need us again, sir? I'm ready and willing."

"Not right now." David lowered his tone to match Bert's. "But if they get in a jam, they know who to call. No, this is a strictly in-house job. And strictly between you and me."

"Of course, sir. You can rely on my absolute discretion."

David nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Viola."

A pause. "So…what's the case?"

David shrugged. "It's not much, really. In fact, it's almost beneath your considerable talents…just a little background research, some tailing…" He stopped, as though he were embarrassed.

Bert jumped in. "I'll take it! Who's the suspect?"

David wrote down a name and slid it across the desk. Bert read it. "Sam Crawford…Crawford! But isn't that…?" He jerked his head in the direction of Maddie's office.

"The very same."

David recognized the doubtful look on Bert's face; the guy would probably make a pretty good detective some day, if he could ixnay that bothersome conscience. "But, Mr. Addison…I'm not sure—"

"I know, Herbert, it seems pretty irregular. But, dammit—" David slapped the desk lightly—"I can't be too careful where my partner's concerned. She's the face of this business, y'know!"

The other man nodded, but still seemed worried. "If Ms. Hayes found out—" he drew his forefinger across his neck.

David dropped his voice to a whisper again…only this time, there was a hint of force in his words. "Do your job well, Bert, and she'll never know."

Bert hesitated, the paper crumpling in his hand.

The phone buzzed. "Mr. Addison?" Agnes said over the speaker. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have a message for you…it's pretty important."

At the sound of Agnes' voice, a change came over Bert: he sat up straight, and slapped the desk in his turn. "I'll do it!"

"Go get 'em, cowboy," David replied, picking up the handset. _Mission accomplished_.

* * *

Normally, he would never drink in the afternoon, but today Sam felt the need of some liquid reinforcement if he was going to make it through his presentation.

That scene in Maddie's office had thrown him a little. He didn't know why, but it hadn't occurred to him, as he was driving to Blue Moon, that he might run into David there—he had his mind on Maddie, and Maddie alone. But when good ol' Dave burst in, and she went all nervous and fluttery—Sam couldn't help but be reminded of the other night.

What was going on between the two of them, really? Maddie hadn't been very forthcoming. Sam couldn't judge based on what he'd seen, because as soon as he'd spotted the guy pawing all over her, a wave of rage had coursed over him. He hadn't stopped to observe—had just acted, instinctively, when he pulled the jerk away from her and decked him.

So maybe David was potential competition, maybe he wasn't…but Sam was hedging his bets. He'd enlisted that receptionist (what was her name? Angel? Annie?)—she looked a little ditzy, but she seemed to understand exactly what he had in mind for this evening. He took another sip of his drink, musing contentedly on Maddie's reaction to his plan.

Yeah, he had nothing to worry about, if the past was any indication. He'd seen David's kind before: fast-talking, a certain kind of charm, sure, but ultimately untrustworthy. There had been a guy just like that in high school—Trey (real name: Christopher S. Hawkins III). Two years older, he affected a brooding James Dean-ish air of deprivation, though his parents belonged to the same country club as the Hayes' and Crawfords.

Maddie was head over heels for the guy, but he wouldn't give her the time of day; rumor had it he was busy trying to capture the Homecoming Queen's elusive virginity.

Then, lo and behold, Maddie turned sixteen and got her first modeling contract, and Trey dropped the Homecoming Queen and spent his free periods hanging around Maddie's locker and taking her for (strictly forbidden) motorcycle jaunts at lunch.

Sam knew it would blow up eventually, though he didn't expect it to last as long as it did. He was patient, biding his time and playing the role of best friend. Oh, not that he didn't have a fling or three—he wasn't the quarterback and president of the National Honor Society for nothing—but he kept them discreet and more important, temporary. The cheerleaders, yearbook editors, and physics club girls never had a real chance.

In the spring of senior year, Maddie came back from a visit to Trey at Princeton (he was a legacy; otherwise, they never would've touched him, given his grades). She was devastated. Not content with the devotion of a girl who'd been on the cover of _Teen_ magazine—twice—Trey apparently had what Sam's dad would call "a bit on the side."

Her train arriving early, Maddie had made her way to Trey's dorm room, where she discovered Suzanne, a long-haired Philosophy major, ensconced in Trey's bed. Suzanne told her coolly that she knew all about Maddie, but that college was "really a time for exploration…intellectual, emotional, _and_ physical," and she (Suzanne) was sure Maddie wouldn't want to hold Trey back. Oh, and also, the modeling thing? Maddie really shouldn't let herself be "exploited by the patriarchal-consumerist machine" that sold magazines, clothes, and shampoo.

Maddie said not a word, just picked up her case and walked out. She called Sam from the train station, practically incoherent.

He was waiting for her when her train pulled in.

She cried on his shoulder for two months before he made his move. He asked her to their Senior Prom—predictable, maybe, but he planned and plotted to make it a night like no other: he borrowed his father's Corvette, made sure it was buffed to a mirrorlike shine, filled the interior with flowers and a bottle of champagne chilling on the floor. He showed up with a corsage for Maddie, chocolates for her mother, and a very nice cigar for Mr. Hayes, who agreed with a wink not to ask where he got it.

Sam took Maddie to a romantic little bistro on the North Shore, far from the Evanston Hungry Hunter hosting the other promgoers. Over the salmon croquettes, he took her hand and said, "I hope this makes you happy, Maddie. I _always_ want you to be happy."

"Oh, Sam," she said, returning the squeeze. "You've been such a good friend."

He took a deep breath; it was now or never. "I don't want to just be your friend."

She didn't reply, but at the end of the evening, as they sat in the Corvette, she let him kiss her.

When they graduated two weeks later, he gave her his class ring and told her he loved her…and for the next seven years, whenever they were in the same place (which, admittedly, wasn't that often—Maddie travelled almost constantly and Sam was at Yale), they were together. Sam dated now and again—possibly Maddie did too—but he always assumed that, in the end, it would be the two of them: Maddie and Sam.

He still did. And he was damned if he was going to let this "partner" of hers get in the way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_Count Malefico opened the heavy oak door. "Your chamber," he murmured. "I hope it is sufficient for your needs."_

_His hazel eyes burned into hers. Was it desire, or something more sinister, she saw there? Catriona couldn't tell. He bowed over her hand, and with a sweep of his black cloak, was gone._

_She stood stock-still, watching his retreat. The single candle he carried, a twin of her own, haloed his dark head and shoulders, but left the rest of him in disconcerting darkness. He seemed to float down the corridor._

_Catriona shook herself, willing away silly fancies and uneasy feelings. She entered the room, finding it contained nothing more menacing than a curtained bed, chest, basin, and ewer. Setting her candle down, she removed her travelling cloak._

_A rustle sounded behind her. _Mice, doubtless_, she told herself firmly, but couldn't restrain a look over her shoulder._

_A hand, glowing ghostly white, reached from between the curtains…reached for _her…

_Catriona screamed and screa_

"Can I ask you a favor?" a voice whispered.

Agnes started, hand at her throat. In her typewriter, the "a" key stuck to the paper for a second before slotting back into its place with a loud "chunk." She jumped again.

"I didn't mean to startle you." Sam leaned closer; she could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. Did his grin look a little wolfish? _No_, she told herself. _That's what you get for writing on the job._

She tried to compose herself. "What can I do for you, Mr. Crawford?" she asked in her most businesslike voice.

"Shhh," he cautioned. "Please, 'Sam' is fine. But I need some help planning a surprise for Maddie."

"For Ms.—" she lowered her voice—"Hayes?"

"Yeah. Listen, I want to take her out for a really special dinner tonight. But I'm not from around here, and I don't know what her favorites are. I need someplace romantic, with a view, maybe—great food, probably kinda fancy—well, _you_ know Maddie—"

"Yep, _I_ sure do," Agnes replied. He didn't seem to hear the emphasis.

"So you can help me with reservations? About seven-thirty?"

She nodded, thinking hard. "I can help."

Sam grinned again, handing her a card with his hotel number on it. He checked his watch. "You're a gem!" he whispered, throwing her a wink as he dashed out the door.

Agnes' manufactured smile vanished, and she sat for a moment, chin in hand. He was a charmer, she had to admit. _It must be nice to have someone go to so much trouble for you,_ she thought a little wistfully. She and Ms. Hayes had talked once about men and their usual level of romantic effort (laughable); the two women agreed that a _real_ man would do something a little extra, a little unexpected...

_Right strategy, wrong guy_, Agnes thought, sitting up in alarm. The twinkle in Sam's eyes when he talked about tonight...things were heating up fast; Ms. Hayes might get swept off her feet before she knew what was happening!

At least Mr. Addison was back, though she couldn't rely on _him_ to put up much of a fight, if his quick exit from Ms. Hayes' office was any indication. But wait! Now Ms. Hayes was heading into Mr. Addison's office. Maybe, when she heard about the big case—when she saw the reward—she would realize—

This hope, however, was dashed a few minutes later, when Ms. Hayes steamed back across the office, head down and growling.

Agnes shook her head. This time, it looked like she would have to step in. Catriona and Malefico would have to wait—she had a different kind of plotting to do.

* * *

Bert's eagerness faded before he even got to the door of Mr. Addison's office. He stood there a minute, hand on the knob, wondering if he should turn around and refuse. It would be suicide, pure suicide, if Ms. Hayes found out, and even if she didn't…Mr. Addison had implied that it was for her protection, for the good of Blue Moon, but Bert wasn't stupid. There was an edge to the boss that hadn't been there before this Crawford guy showed up.

_Why take the risk?_ Bert asked himself. Then the knob turned in his hand and the door swung inward, nearly knocking him down.

And there stood his reason. He had a quick vision of her surprised face—they were momentarily nose to nose—before she dodged around him to get to Mr. Addison's desk.

Agnes. That—that _Casanova_ had flirted with Agnes.

Apparently, Ms. Hayes wasn't the only one in danger of falling prey to the Crawford charisma. Not thirty minutes ago, Bert had looked on disgruntled as the man leaned over Agnes' desk, the two of them whispering back and forth. Try as he might, Bert couldn't hear what they were saying, but Crawford had the temerity to wink at her as he left—and she had smiled! The loathsome Lothario! Bert was surprised he hadn't dallied with Jamie, Kris, and Inez, too—why not make Blue Moon his personal harem?

Bert's indignation renewed itself now, as Agnes brushed by him, and he went straight to his desk and got down to work. It was lucky, he reflected, that the Viola family was so numerous…and that they had such a penchant for government work. He was fairly sure he had a second cousin, or half-uncle, or something, in the Chicago area.

Two hours later, he went in to Mr. Addison's office to report his findings thus far. He sat down heavily.

"Well, Mr. Viola? Give me the dirt."

"That's just it," said Bert morosely. "There _is_ no dirt. The guy's completely clean—DMV, tax records, everything. He's got a double Ph.D. in astrophysics and engineering from _Yale_. Holds a patent on some low-density polymer thing—pretty much has him set financially."

"How 'bout his personal life?"

"Well, I've left messages with a few of his co-workers, but he doesn't seem to have much of a personal life…or at least, nothing scandalous. Nobody had a bad word to say about him."

"Guess we don't have to worry about Blue Moon's reputation," mused Mr. Addison. "Or Ms. Hayes," he added carelessly, as though she was an afterthought.

"Guess not," sighed Bert, getting up to leave.

"Nice work, Bertie." It was a compliment, but it seemed to have cost Mr. Addison some effort.

"Thank you, sir. And I'll let you know if any of those people call back."

The boss leaned back in his chair, one hand over his eyes. "Sounds good."

Bert was at the door before he realized he hadn't dropped the biggest bomb. "Oh, Mr. Addison? I almost forgot—"

"What?"

"Crawford—he's an astronaut."

Mr. Addison's chair legs came back to earth with a bang. "An astronaut? Jesus," he said incredulously…and then he cracked up.

"I know, sir, I know," Bert muttered under his breath, making his way back to his desk while Mr. Addison's bitter laughter rang in his ears.

The office was almost empty: the other employees had clocked out and only Agnes was at her post. Avoiding her eye, Bert pulled his notes out again. Maybe there were some more phone calls he could make—

And then suddenly, she was there, saying the words he hadn't even realized he wanted to hear:

"Herbert? I need you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Maddie's receptionist had done herself proud…the restaurant was perfect. On the thirty-fifth floor of a chic downtown hotel, it boasted a stunning view of the Los Angeles Valley. Millions of tiny lights twinkled out to the mountains on the horizon; it was going to be like eating on a carpet of stars.

Having made his arrangements with the maître d', Sam surveyed his temporary domain with satisfaction. Their table was so close to the window as to be almost a part of the view itself, which made it feel private, yet would ensure that their fellow diners would be looking on (with indulgent sighs, no doubt) as the handsome man in the tuxedo got engaged to the Blue Moon Shampoo Girl.

After which, he and Maddie would go down to the suite he had booked on the thirty-fourth floor. A little extravagant, but it had the advantage of not harboring any awkward associations with masked men. His luggage was already there, and he had packed a bag for Maddie, too…just a few things he thought she would need.

There was a certain old-fashioned charm to the fact that they hadn't (re)consummated their relationship yet. Sam wasn't worried—that area had never been a problem before—but he was glad that they would spend their (second) first night together beyond the reach of anyone at Blue Moon.

He settled into his chair. Seven-thirty-two: perfect. Maddie would, no doubt, be a bit late; women always liked to make a dramatic entrance. That was fine...the interval would give him a few minutes to calmly prepare for the evening ahead, not to mention the rosy future beyond.

Once they were married—in six months or so; Maddie and her mother could easily put together an elegant, yet understated event in that much time—he would probably start the process of retiring from active duty at NASA. He might fly one more mission; they could keep his place in Florida, stay there while he did his run-up to flight. Then back to Chicago: Evanston was still very nice, though perhaps Winnetka fit better… In any case, Northwestern would, he was fairly sure, welcome their homegrown astronaut as an impressive addition to their faculty.

As for Maddie? Well, his mother could sponsor her for the Junior League, of course, and then there'd be kids, hopefully soon. Maddie would be a wonderful mother, loving, patient…but she wouldn't let them run all over her, either. She had a good solid backbone, his Maddie.

He checked his watch—eight o'clock! She was pushing fashionably late a little far, he thought, almost irritated. But then a beautiful woman materialized at his side.

"Dr. Crawford?"

It wasn't Maddie, obviously. It took him a minute to place her: the brunette with the O-ring drawings! She'd shed her quiet, serious demeanor for…well. She'd let her hair down, literally, and a curtain of shiny brown flowed down her back. The red dress she wore emphasized the curves that must've been hidden under her conference clothes.

He rose, trying to wipe the astonishment off his face.

"Kate James." She held out her hand.

He shook it. "Dr. James—"

"Kate, please."

"OK," he pointed to himself, "Sam. Are you here with…" He looked around, but didn't see an empty table.

"It's one of the conference get-togethers." She gestured to a private room, just visible through a side door, where a group was milling around sipping drinks and choosing seats. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks—I'm meeting someone. But here—sit down—care for champagne?" Lifting the bottle from its cooling bucket, he poured them each a glass; there would be plenty left for the celebration later.

He raised his flute. "To new discoveries."

"To new discoveries," she repeated, a pretty flush staining her cheeks.

They were chatting companionably about booster circumference, field joints, and pressure differentials when a trio of violinists made its way to the table, playing "All the Way." In their wake trailed the maître d' and a liveried waiter with a covered platter.

Horrified, Sam tried to signal the maître d', but it was too late. The waiter set the platter carefully in front of Kate, and pulled off the silver dome with a flourish.

There, atop a mound of red, ripe strawberries, rested the two-carat, princess-cut diamond ring Sam had picked out before he came to L.A. Around the perimeter of the white china plate was written, in curly chocolate script, "Will you marry me?"

"Oh Dr. Crawford—Sam—" Kate gasped.

The violins halted, and the maître d' and waiter took a few respectful steps back. Around them, heads turned in their direction, anxious to share in such a special moment. Sam struggled to keep his composure.

He forced a laugh. "Well, there's a conversation-stopper."

Kate looked mortified. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I've spoiled your surprise—"

"It's not your fault," he replied, his face grim as he gestured to the maître d'. In quietly menacing tones, he made his displeasure known to the confused man, who bowed and removed the platter amidst a cascade of apologies. Sam had the presence of mind to pluck the ring from the pile of strawberries, stowing it safely back in its velvet box.

Kate stood. "I should be getting back—I—well, good luck," she smiled tentatively at him.

"Thanks…enjoy your dinner," he said tightly as she headed back to the private room. Kate didn't seem the kind of girl to tell tales, but he really hoped he was not about to become the butt of a hundred bad jokes and snide comments.

Sam put the ring box in his pocket and headed for the pay phone. A short, harried-looking man hung up and scurried away as he approached. The man seemed familiar, but Sam wasn't going to waste the mental energy required to place him, though he did pause to wonder why the guy had one palm leaf stuck in his bushy hair.

He called Blue Moon, and then her house; no answer at either place.

Where the hell was Maddie?


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The Inn of the Seventh Ray is an actual restaurant, nestled in the hills north of LA. I have tried to do it justice, but I'm sure my hundred words can't capture it like the pictures. Check it out at innoftheseventhray dot com, if you'd like.

And I can't say it enough…thanks to Julia, Connie, and Jenna for giving so unselfishly of their time and thoughts!

**Chapter Twelve**

David didn't think about these things often, but the Inn of the Seventh Ray was about the most romantic public space he'd ever seen, starting with the fanciful wrought-iron gate, and ending on the lushly landscaped patio. He followed the hostess along a meandering brick pathway to a rock-hewn booth tucked into a corner.

From there, he looked out into a sea of green, the tables little white-topped islands dotted here and there. He was no gardener, and couldn't begin to name any of the trailing vines, blooming bushes, and potted trees that enveloped the terrace, but he could appreciate the effect. It was like—what did they call it in fairy tales (on which David _was_ something of an expert, thanks to sneaking into a lot of Disney movies as a kid)?—a bower, that place where the princess sat and sang sweetly to the gathered woodland creatures. Crickets chirped in the dusky air, and he was pretty sure there was a brook babbling away, just on the other side of the booth.

It was, in fact, a pretty odd choice for a business dinner, even a congratulatory one, unless Ed Scharlock had a hidden (_very_ hidden) agenda.

However, in a different world, one without chiseled astronauts who held polymer patents, it would have been the perfect place to bring Maddie, a place tailor-made for crossing from friendship into…something else. They could've sat in one of these booths, just the right height for resting an arm around someone's shoulder. He could've told her stories of his childhood; those urban Catholic school anecdotes would probably be pretty entertaining for an atheist from the suburbs. And if all else failed, he had a stockpile of Richie absurdities to fall back on.

They could have a good laugh, some nice wine, and then David would take his heart in his hands and confess. She might kiss him, or slap him—there was no way of knowing with Maddie. But at least the choked feeling that had gripped his chest for the last few days would ease a little.

He took a long drink of the beer that seemed to have magically appeared in front of him. (Did you order by ESP here?) Damn NASA. Couldn't they keep those guys up there a little longer? A nice Space Station mission—one of those ones where they study the effect on your kidneys of 500 days in orbit—yeah, that would fit the bill.

As things were, though, he sure as shootin' wasn't going to put himself out there against Captain bloody America…at least not until he knew where Maddie stood.

Maddie, Maddie…

_Maddie?!_

A vision in ice-blue was walking toward his table. The candlelight shone on her strapless dress, winking off the sparkling pin that clasped the fabric at her waist. She wore her hair loose, in the way that he loved: soft curls brushed her bare shoulders, silk on silk.

He stood up, not knowing why she was here—a small part of his brain registered that Scharlock must have invited her too—and not really caring, just feeling a ballooning happiness that for the moment, he had her to himself.

She spotted him, and stopped abruptly. "David? What are you doing here?" She sounded…suspicious. Even a little angry. Something was off.

He decided a vague answer worked best, until he knew what was going on. "Same thing you are."

"Oh, really?" she asked sardonically, raising one eyebrow.

"C'mon, sit down…let's have a drink while we're waiting for him to show up."

Maddie looked wary, but slid into the booth anyway, probably to spare the hostess from their bickering. "White wine spritzer, please," she said in response to the hostess' question.

"Sure you wouldn't rather have champagne? I mean, this _is_ a celebration." He was trying to cajole her out of the impending tirade.

Crossing her arms, she glared at him. "And what business is it of yours, I'd like to know?"

That was a low blow, pulling rank on him at a time like this. He was the one who'd caught Joan Tenowich—she hadn't done anything except cash the check! "Well, Ms. Hayes, of course it is _your_ business. That's the thing about a former model, I guess…they hate to share the limelight."

Maddie's eyes grew wide as her mouth shut tight. David could tell she was trying to rein in an explosion of temper—well, fine! He could be angry, too—her ingratitude! Her arrogance!

"You—you—you're insane!" she whispered fiercely. "You crash an intimate dinner for two, and then accuse me of—what was it?—refusing 'to share the limelight'?!"

"If anything, you're crashing _my_ dinner! I mean, OK, I get it, Scharlock can't miss a chance to meet the famous Blue Moon Girl, but _I'm_ the real hero here, honey—and don't you forget it!" He leaned back in the booth, winded from his protest.

Maddie blinked, looking more confused than choleric now. She put up a hand. "Stop right there, Addison. Who is Scharlock, and why _exactly_ are you here?"

"You mean Scharlock didn't invite you?"

"David—I'm running out of patience. _Who is Scharlock?_"

"He's the FBI guy. He called, said he wanted to go out for dinner, celebrate the Tenowich case. I figured maybe he called you, too. But if you're not here to see him…"

The answer to his unspoken question crashed down on him a half-second before Maddie replied, "I'm meeting Sam."

_Sam_. Of course. So she had dressed up for _him_, done her hair for _him_, put that subtly enticing perfume on…for _him_.

Damn him to hell.

"OK," she went on. "Game's over. I'd really appreciate it if you'd get out of here before Sam shows up."

He felt numb, bewildered…he couldn't even process what she was saying. He grabbed a conversational straw. "So—_Sam_—tell me about Sam."

Maddie checked her watch. "David, please—" Her urgency finally got through to him, and he checked his own watch. Seven-forty-five. Scharlock had said seven-thirty. Well, who could blame an FBI agent for being late? The guy was probably busy nabbing a drug kingpin or preventing an assassination attempt.

"Aw, Maddie. Traffic on the 101 was a nightmare—he's probably been held up somewhere. We might as well chat, catch up a little…seems like there's been a lot of…action…in your life lately."

She seemed determined not to take the bait. "Sam is—he's none of your business, is what he is. And you really expect me to believe that you're _here_—" she gestured around them—"for a _business_ dinner? Ha!" She tipped her wineglass up and took a long sip. "So how did you know we'd be here? Wormed it out of Agnes, I suppose."

Agnes! Suddenly, the coincidence of the situation hit him: he and Maddie, same place, same time…both of their dining partners mysteriously "late." And he hadn't talked to Scharlock himself; Agnes had come into his office with a "message."

"So it was Agnes who told you where to meet Sam tonight?"

"I was on the phone," Maddie shrugged. "He left all the details with her."

David threw back his head and laughed. Well, well, well. Loopy waters ran deep, apparently. Who would've guessed Agnes could be such a schemer? He should probably be furious; the cab fare up here had been exorbitant, not to mention the daydream he'd been spinning about scoring some kind of retainer deal with the Bureau.

But all he could feel was a strange gratitude—he and Maddie were here, together, in this unbelievable setting, and Flash Boredom was cooling his heels…well, it hardly mattered where. Maybe he could turn this whole thing around somehow.

He glanced at Maddie's stony face, the obstinate set of her jaw.

Yeah—not likely.

In any case, he had to protect Agnes as long as he could. Maddie would figure it out eventually, but until then… So he ducked his head, trying to look suitably chastened. "OK, Maddie, you got me. I came up here to get the—the lay of the land."

At first, he thought he was in for an outraged diatribe: "How dare you spy on me like this!", et cetera. But to his surprise, she softened slightly. There was something—a kind of waiting—in her eyes. "Why, David? What difference could it make to you?"

There it was: his opening.

"Just want to be sure I get first crack at the registry list—I'd hate to end up having to give you a toaster."

Coward.

"Fine." She grabbed her purse and slid out of the booth. "I'm going to make a phone call."

David finished his beer and signaled the waiter for the bill. He'd better be prepared to make a very quick exit, if Maddie managed to reach of Sam.

A few minutes later, she came back to the table, frowning. "He's not at the house, not at the conference hotel—we must have gotten our wires crossed somehow."

"Don't suppose you'd want to join me for an appetizer, then," he joked.

"Addison," she warned. She didn't sit back down. "I'd better be going. It's going to take me an hour to get back downtown. Poor Sam! It sounded like he had quite an evening planned." Strangely, though, it didn't sound like she was all that disappointed to have missed it. David's heart gave a little skip of hope.

He stood up to follow her out, but she walked over to the edge of the terrace, gazing down at the brook below. "It's too bad," she said softly. "This place is…amazing."

_It suits you_, he thought.

She turned to face him, and he took one step closer to her. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight…God! It was unbearable…

He kissed her, just once, gently. She didn't move. He slid a hand over her shoulder to her neck, feeling the creamy softness of her skin—and he was gone. Drowning in her—her taste, her scent, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, the slippery satin of her gown as he pulled her to him.

She drew away, breathing hard, eyes like violet flame now. Dazed, he traced his thumb along her jaw, reached for her again, and—

SMACK!

David put a hand up to his cheek. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"How dare you! How dare you come up here and spy on me!" (Ah—there it was.) "What gives you the right to—you think you can just—you have the morals of a caveman, Addison!"

She took off, pumps clicking madly on the red brick, nearly bowling over two servers carrying massive trays laden with delicious-looking food.

David kicked a paver in frustration. "Just when I thought we were getting somewhere…" he muttered, as he bobbed and weaved his way through the tables. By the time he got to the parking lot, she was already in the BMW.

"Yo, Mad-day!" he called. "Don't suppose you could give me a—" She shot him a venom-filled look; gravel sprayed from her tires as she squealed out onto the road.

He slumped down on a bench by the valet stand, running a hand through his hair.

A small voice behind him sighed mournfully, "Mr. Addison? I can take you home."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Maddie raced down the canyon, her thoughts traveling nearly as fast as the BMW. David had a lot of nerve, showing up out of nowhere, making jokes, and then just…kissing her! For the second time in three days! No explanations, no declarations—just another dose of Addison's lip service. It was maddening!

_And you loved it_, said a little voice inside her head.

OK, so she had liked it. But just because she responded to him physically, just because she'd had that same sensation of total connection, of practically melting into him…it didn't mean anything.

If he couldn't be bothered to _tell_ her how he felt, then to hell with him. It wasn't like she hadn't given him a chance. She practically asked him straight out. And what did he do? Same thing he had done after the garage—made some snide comment.

Well, she was a grown woman. She didn't need a man who played these kinds of games.

She was halfway promised to Sam, anyway. Sam, who talked to her, who brought her massive bouquets, who had planned what would have been, she was sure, a beautifully romantic date. The only date David had ever planned for her had nearly gotten them killed by KGB agents.

David had had two and a half years, and countless opportunities, to let her know what she meant to him, and he never had. Only now, when another man came along—a man who, she reminded herself, might just be perfect for her—did David feel the need to stake his claim, which he did with all the finesse of a Neanderthal mating ritual.

In the space of two days, on the other hand, Sam had managed to make her feel valued, precious even. He seemed to appreciate her more, having spent so long without her; he was working pretty hard to make sure she understood that.

_So…why now?_ asked the little voice. _Did he just assume you'd be here, waiting for him, after ten years?_

_It's not like that_, she told herself. _He's here on business, looks up an old friend,_ _we're both unattached—it just…worked out._

There was no reason why she shouldn't see where things went with Sam. They didn't need to rush into anything; it would be a long-distance relationship anyway. Sam had meant so much to her once. He definitely deserved a second chance.

* * *

She pulled open the front door to find Sam pacing the foyer. "There you are! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He put an arm around her, gathering her close; he cupped her face in his hands and gave her a lingering kiss. "I was worried…"

"Sam—" she started, but he steered her toward the living room.

"Come on in here—you can tell me all about it. I'm just glad you're OK."

"But really, nothing—" she cut herself off as she came into the room. A fire blazed in the fireplace, a vase of white lilies crowned the coffee table, and plates, linen, and cutlery sat waiting.

"How did you do all this?" she asked.

He shrugged, settling on the couch and pulling her down with him. "It's no big deal. When you didn't show up at La Faute I just figured—"

"La Faute? Agnes told me we were meeting at the Inn of the Seventh Ray."

"What? No, La Faute. She should know, she set the whole thing up." He glanced at his hands a little sheepishly. "I wanted someplace really unique—she said it's one of your favorites."

"She did, did she?" The puzzle pieces were falling into place. This kind of prank just reeked of David Addison—she couldn't believe he would pull poor Agnes down with him. Following her to the Inn was bad enough!

And Sam had gone to so much trouble—the flowers, the meal… La Faute was a wonderful place. Of course, the last time she had tried to eat there, David had ruined that dinner too. She hadn't minded so much then; that plastic surgeon was a classic NSM.

But she was tired of David messing up what could have been a perfectly lovely night with his sabotage and sarcasm…he had no idea what she wanted—certainly had never asked her—and it was downright disrespectful. What gave him the right to interfere in her life? Nothing, that's what.

Her anger was threatening to boil over, and Maddie had to will herself to calm down. Sam was trying to tell her something. "I'm sorry—what?"

"I said, I guess she can expect a pink slip on her desk in the morning."

"Who? Agnes?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, interfering in your personal life—not the kind of quality you really want in an employee, right?" He said something under his breath; it sounded like "won't be long, anyway."

"What was that?" she asked, biting back a spark of irritation.

"Nothing," he replied, checking his watch. "It won't be long until our dinner's ready."

"Oh. As for Agnes…she may be a little—misguided—but she has a good heart. Besides, I doubt it was her idea."

Sam sat back on the couch and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "David?" he asked.

"I wouldn't put it past him."

Sam nodded, took a deep breath, let it out. "What's going on, Maddie?"

Maddie was silent. She couldn't blame him for wanting some reassurance; she just didn't know what to tell him.

"Does he love you?"

"No!" she protested. But like some sappy TV montage, images spooled across her brain: David handing her $35,000 to save her house; David in the office doorway, saying "I'm sorry"; David coming back to work for her, when he could've struck out on his own; David's face when she came into a room.

_Yes_, said that traitorous inner voice. _Yes, he does_.

_Not enough_, she told it, and turned her attention back to Sam.

She smiled and touched his arm. "Look, I know you had a red-letter evening planned, and I'm sorry it got fouled up." She leaned in and kissed him softly. "I'd like to make it up to you, if I can."

Sam responded with a kiss of his own. Maddie tried to give herself to it, tried not to think about David and the terrace…

She almost succeeded.

Then Sam's lips came down on hers more insistently, his arms tightened around her, his hands caressed her back. "God, Maddie," he whispered. "You…are…amazing." For a minute, she was able to block everything out, to focus on this moment; then she felt his fingers on the zipper of her dress and she pulled away.

Sam looked down at her with his boyish grin. "Sorry…getting a little ahead of myself, there. Champagne?"

He poured two flutes and gave one to her. "To…us," he said, relishing the word. She drank hers down quickly—too quickly; she could feel the bubbles stinging her nose.

And then he was sliding off the couch, kneeling at her feet. No! Surely he couldn't be… He was talking, but she couldn't hear him through the rushing in her ears…

"Maddie, you've meant the world to me since I was six years old. Being here, with you, has shown me how much I've been missing…I want you to share my life, my dreams, my family…"

His blue eyes were piercingly sincere, but his voice was hollow, as if it was coming through a pipe. She glanced down; something in his hand was sparkling, almost blinding, in the firelight.

"Will you marry me?"

The fire, the sparkle, Sam's face swirled around her…she fell back on the pillows, and that was that.

* * *

"Maddie? Maddie?" She opened her eyes to confront Sam's concerned face. He held a glass of water to her lips.

"What happened?" she asked blearily, struggling to sit up. Gently, he pushed her back down.

"You fainted. I'm going to call the doctor—you stay right here," he ordered.

"No! I'm sure that's not necessary, Sam…I'll just drink some more water." Fainted? She had _fainted?_ She hadn't fainted since she was nineteen, on a grueling eight-hour shoot in the desert for some art magazine. The jerk photographer hadn't allowed them to eat or drink anything; he said it was important that they look "authentically parched."

So, what, was she turning into the kind of swoony romance-novel heroine who collapsed at the slightest provocation, the kind who read volumes of meaning into each kiss, the kind who was torn between two lovers? It was ridiculous—humiliating! (Besides, she wasn't torn between two anything, thank you very much.)

"Really, I'm fine." She sat up to illustrate her point, though her head pounded. "I shouldn't have had that champagne on an empty stomach." Covering her eyes with her hand, she muttered, "I feel like an idiot."

"A beautiful idiot," assured Sam, kissing her forehead. He tipped her head up, so she had to look him in the eyes. "Now—I'm going into the kitchen. Don't. Move."

He came back a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of soup and a plateful of French bread. "Tomato bisque." He set it down in front of her. "La Faute had great takeout."

While Maddie ate her soup, Sam moved the conversation to neutral ground; by the time she was finished, she felt much better.

He stood up and held out his hand. "Bedtime for you, sweetheart."

She knew she should protest, should offer him something in the way of a response for what he had asked her. But the truth was, she was exhausted, her head spinning from the emotional upheaval of the last few days. So, she let Sam lead her upstairs, take off her shoes, and tuck her in.

"Sam…I'm so sorry about tonight," she offered.

He squeezed her hand. "That's OK—there'll be a lot of other nights….we have forever, Maddie."

As soon as the door shut behind him, she got up, undressed, and put on her robe. She sat for a long time in front of the vanity mirror, wondering if she could see Mrs. Sam Crawford there.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Addison." Agnes looked over at him, head back and eyes closed. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in nervous anticipation of his answer. Was he going to fire her?

"S'OK, Miss DiPesto."

"She was pretty mad, huh?" Ms. Hayes _definitely_ might fire her.

"No more than usual."

There was silence for a moment while she navigated one of the trickier turns.

"It turned out a lot differently in my head," she admitted.

Mr. Addison opened his eyes and focused on her. "Agnes…just how long have you been planning tonight's little charade?"

"Oh, not long…just today."

"Huh. I woulda thought deception of this magnitude required more advanced preparation."

Agnes glanced at him again, trying to gauge his response on what she privately thought of as the Sarcasm Scale: from lightly mocking to bitterly satiric. He was definitely on the lighter side now; there was maybe even a touch of admiration in his words.

She took a deep breath. "You know, Mr. Addison, I was really hoping I wouldn't have to do something like this."

"Really?"

"Yeah…I was hoping you two would figure it out for yourselves."

She cringed a little, fearful that she'd been too direct; but to her shock, Mr. Addison threw back his head and laughed. "Agnes, you're priceless!" he gasped, and was off again. Then he started to wheeze. Concerned, Agnes nearly pulled over, but he held up a hand. "I'm OK, I'm OK—it's just—ahhh—it's just damn funny."

"It is?"

He wiped his eyes. "Me and the blonde…hard to imagine two people _less_ likely to figure anything out."

The irony of this statement was not lost on Agnes. Frustration made her bold. "But—don't you love her?"

"Love?!" he croaked, alarmed. "Look—I'm not denyin' there's something there, but it sure ain't kittens in a basket and REO damn Speedwagon."

"Maybe love isn't always like that," she offered. And what was wrong with REO Speedwagon anyway? Every time she heard "I Can't Fight This Feeling" she thought of—

Mr. Addison reclined his seat, signaling an end to the conversation. "Agnes, I appreciate your concern. But it's complicated."

_No!_ she wanted to shout. _No, it's not!_ _Anyone with two functioning eyes can see it—the whole office sees it—and now you may've missed your chance._

_You should've told her a long time ago_, she berated him silently.

It was funny, though. When _was_ the perfect time to tell someone something you weren't sure of? It wasn't like she had handled things so well with Bert: she had seen him, wanted him, and gone after him without any regard to his feelings at all. Then, because she'd been so hurt herself, she hurt him too. Only in the last few weeks had she let herself thaw a little…give a little… Bert was coming around, she could tell. But this time, she would be patient—wait for him to choose the moment.

Even in fiction, it wasn't easy. Catriona and Malefico: they were destined for one another. But if she brought them together, if she revealed Malefico's noble intentions and Catriona's steadfast heart too soon—poof! There went the drama, the fascination, the suspense. On the other hand, if she held off, put a few obstacles in their way, clouded their perceptions of each other—bang! Romance and mystery solved together, in a satisfyingly happy ending.

Maybe Mr. Addison and Ms. Hayes were like that. Maybe they just needed a couple of hurdles—like the kind wearing a space suit—to realize how they felt about each other. Maybe this was the final conflict, the climax of the action. Sam would go (somehow), and everything would be resolved. Then she, Agnes, could just sit back and enjoy the denoument.

* * *

She turned the key in the lock, feeling utterly drained. A cup of hot cocoa, she thought, and then bed. Mmm…

But the answering machine light was blinking frantically. She dropped her keys on the breakfast bar and pushed the "Play" button; Bert's voice sounded through the speaker, whispering loudly:

"Agent Viola, checking in. Seven-twenty. I am in position." BEEP!

"Seven-twenty-eight. The mark has arrived. He is talking to the maître d'." BEEP!

"Eight o'clock. The mark is getting restless…just a minute, another subject is approaching the table. Will report back." BEEP!

"Eight-twelve. The mark is conversing and drinking a sparkling alcoholic beverage with an attractive brunette. Wait—is that music?" Silence…then, in a voice of urgency: "The mark has a ring! I repeat, the mark has a RING—" BEEEEEEP!

A ring?! Agnes was aghast. So much for letting things take their course—so much for letting the story write itself. It looked like they were running out of pages.

She seized her keys and yanked the door open. Herbert Viola fell in a heap at her feet.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Special thanks go to graycav56, auto aficionado extraordinaire, for Agnes' wheels…and her Uncle Iggy. You rock, gray!

**Chapter Fifteen**

Agnes grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him up. "Agent Viola, I got your messages—there's no time to lose!"

Bert found himself dashing back down the corridor of her apartment building. In the elevator, Agnes asked, "So, what's the latest?"

He felt nervous, as though he was addressing military high command. "Well…I followed Crawford back to Ms. Hayes' house and waited. Ms. Hayes finally came back at 2100 hours…uh, about twenty minutes ago."

"Twenty minutes! A _lot_ can happen in twenty minutes," she said gloomily.

"It took me fifteen just to drive here!" Bert defended himself.

Agnes' demeanor softened; she patted his arm. "Herbert, you've done excellent work tonight." She leaned forward—his heart started to pound—DING! The elevator stopped. And she was all business once again.

"I'll drive," she said. "You can give me all the gory details on the way."

He stopped short, disappointment making him peevish. "Where are we going _now_?"

"To Mr. Addison's! Hustle up, Herbert—let's go!"

* * *

Bert clung to the door handle as Agnes pushed her Austin Healey 3000 to the limit, streaking through yellow lights and taking corners on two wheels. She downshifted, letting the clutch out expertly; Mario Andretti had nothing on her.

"Nice car," he remarked, when he could breathe again.

"My Uncle Iggy gave it to me—he got it when he was stationed outside of London."

"In the army?"

"Oh, no," she said carelessly, braking hard to the right and screeching to a stop. "He was with the MI6."

Agnes' uncle had been a _spy_? He clutched his forehead, bemused. Clearly, he had a lot to learn about this woman.

She stuck her head in the open window; in his ear, she hissed, "Make tracks, Viola! We've got a job to do!"

They took the stairs two at a time. When they got to the third floor, Bert had to stop, bent over and gasping. Agnes charged right on by him to apartment 304 and pounded on the door.

Finally, they heard a faint "Yeah?" from the other side.

"Mr. Addison, it's us—Agnes and Bert."

The door opened to reveal the boss, slightly the worse for what must have been a few quick drinks. "Didn't know you two made housecalls."

Agnes grabbed him by his rumpled shirtfront and hauled him toward the bedroom.

"Miss DiPesto! What the hell—"

She stopped in front of the bathroom door. "It's an emergency!"

Anxiety flooded Mr. Addison's face. "What happened? Is Ms. Hayes OK?"

"She's OK," Agnes said darkly. "But she may not be _Miss_ Hayes much longer."

Bert saw that Mr. Addison was thoroughly confused now. He decided to step in. "Crawford has a ring, sir. He was planning to propose tonight."

Mr. Addison was rattled—he hadn't been expecting this, Bert could tell. Then his habitual mask of nonchalance dropped down again, and the flicker of pain Bert had seen was gone.

"What difference does that make to me?"

_Uh-oh_, Bert winced, watching Agnes draw herself up to her full height. She really was majestic when roused.

"What difference does it make? What _difference_? You know exactly what difference, buster! You've got—" she grabbed Bert's wrist and checked his watch—"_Three minutes_ to clean yourself up."

"And where exactly are we going, Mein Agnes?"

"To Ms. Hayes'. _You_ have a proposal to interrupt."

It looked for a minute like Mr. Addison was going to protest; then he gave up, shook his head, and went into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they parked in front of Ms. Hayes' house.

Mr. Addison got out of the car slowly, pausing to hand down a compliment to Agnes on her "adventurous" driving technique. Bert unfolded himself from the miniscule back seat and clambered out, stretching his legs with relief.

"Welll, Bertie…wish me luck," Mr. Addison sighed, pulling up the lapels on his leather jacket.

"Good luck, sir…and Godspeed."

The boss quirked an eyebrow at him, and Bert gave himself a mental slap. What had inspired that little phrase? It wasn't like the man was going to war. Well, actually—

"Do you want us to wait for you, Mr. Addison?" Agnes asked.

"Nah, not necessary. You kids go on." He patted the hardtop, gave Bert a salute, and ambled on up the driveway.

Bert got back into the car. Agnes was staring straight ahead, fingers tapping the steering wheel. For a moment, all was silence. Bert realized that this was the first time he and Agnes had been alone—really alone.

He looked out through the windshield. "Beautiful night." It was; unusually for LA, the sky was clear and the stars bright.

"Is it? I mean, it is," Agnes breathed, leaning out the window. When she turned to him, her eyes were huge, luminous…he could get lost in them...

"Would you—" he cleared his throat—"would you…care to take a drive?"

"OK," she said softly, starting the engine.

He put his hand over hers on the gearshift, and they zoomed off into the night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

David knocked. And waited. And knocked once more.

_Dejà vu all over again_, he thought ruefully. If he got lucky, though, it wouldn't end with a fist in his jaw this time.

The door unlatched…and there was Sam. Hair ruffled, shirt creased—but at least his pants were buttoned. David sucked in his breath, concentrating very hard on keeping his hands by his sides.

So much for lucky.

"Maddie's asleep," Sam announced. There was no mistaking the veiled threat in his voice.

"At nine-thirty?" David questioned. "Must've been some date."

Sam stepped outside, shutting the door carefully behind him. "OK, David, I'll play. What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Maddie."

"Yeah, well, I told you: she's asleep."

"This is pretty important." David moved to go around Sam; Sam's arm came up, blocking the way.

_Fighting is NOT a good idea_, David counseled himself, thinking of Maddie's probable reaction. He took another deep breath, deciding to restrain himself to verbal assaults…or, alternatively, menacing silence.

Sam dropped his arm and put his hands in his pockets. "Look," he said, in a more conciliatory tone. "Maddie wasn't feeling well, so she went to bed. Don't you think this can wait 'til morning?"

Hmm…not feeling well, eh? So maybe good ol' Sammy hadn't had a chance to pop the question. Relief made him bold—brassy, even. "If she's not feeling well, maybe I should take a look. Doctor Dave'll see what she needs."

Sam's blue eyes matched his icy tone: "You don't have the faintest idea what she needs."

Didn't he? David thought of dancing with her in a bar: "Do you really think I'm cold?" As gorgeous as she was, she needed reassurance. She needed a guy who would pray for her, put on a dress for her, a guy she could turn to when push came to shove. Someone who _believed_ in her.

"Lady, you need me to live!" he told her, when they first met. She had changed so much since then; her smiles were more open, her silences softer. He must've been responsible for that, at least a little.

Yeah. He might not have a high-profile career, or a bunch of fancy letters after his name, but he thought he could edge out Buck Rogers where it counted.

Sam was still talking. "…not only what she needs, but what she _deserves_." He held out a small velvet box.

David took one look at the brilliant diamond inside, promising picket fences, Christmas portraits, 'til death do us part…and all his bluster failed him. Was this what Maddie really wanted? It was more than he could give; "forever" just wasn't in his vocabulary right now. Maybe she _would_ be better off with a flying Father Knows Best.

Maybe he should just head on home, leave them to their bright shiny future and their two-point-five kids. He turned, head down, and prepared to go.

"I'll be sure to tell her you stopped by," Sam jeered.

_Wrong move, flyboy_. David's chin came back up, along with his self-confidence. He spun around, pointed to the ring. "Maddie know about this?"

Snapping the box shut, Sam returned it to his pocket. "Yep, she knows."

"I take it she didn't exactly jump at the opportunity then? I mean, since the rock's still in the box."

He could see a muscle twitch in Sam's cheek, but the man leaned back on his heels, the picture of unconcern. "She wanted a little time to think about it…only natural, it's a big decision…but when she _does_ think about it—" Sam glared, as though he could make it happen by sheer force of will—"she'll say yes."

David smirked. "I wouldn't count on it, Spaceman. Maybe she likes her diamonds better rough."

_Nice one, Davy_—he cracked himself up sometimes. He gloated a second too long though, and thus wasn't prepared when Sam's fist crunched into his cheekbone. _Damn! _He staggered back, momentarily stunned. Then the South Philly street spirit rose up in him, and with a guttural yell he barreled into Sam, knocking him back against the front door.

The sidelight smashed into a thousand silvery pieces. David just had time to think, _Maddie's not gonna like that_, when Sam came at him again.

The next few minutes were a blur, highlighted by a chorus of grunts, the tang of blood, and a starburst of pain in his left shoulder. He found himself on the ground, right in front of the door. Sam was on his backside a few feet away.

And then the door opened.

"What in the world? David!" Maddie exclaimed, nearly stumbling over him. She leaned down, inspecting the various cuts on his face; then she turned to Sam, who wasn't looking much better.

David pushed himself to a sitting position, elbows resting on his knees. Meanwhile, Sam jumped up and caught Maddie's arm. "You shouldn't be out of bed." He lowered his voice, but David could still hear him say, "Look, I'm sorry about…all this. I'll explain later. Let's get you back upstairs."

David smiled inwardly; if he knew Maddie, she wasn't going to stand for this mollycoddling. He thought the view might be better from outside the action, rather than underneath it, so he heaved himself to his feet and sauntered over to lean against the BMW.

An amusing (to David) exhange followed, with Sam trying to convince Maddie she "wasn't well," and Maddie insisting in ever-increasing tones that she was "FINE!" At last, Sam went inside, but not before shooting David the evil eye. Maddie watched him go, waited a moment (possibly to be sure he wasn't anywhere near the gaping sidelight), and crossed the driveway to the car.

Maddie looked David up and down. "Are you all right?" she inquired, none too graciously.

He started to shrug, wincing as his shoulder rebelled. "Yeah. Listen, Maddie—"

"What the hell are you doing here, David?"

He deflected the question with one of his own; it was as good a time as any to go digging, he reasoned. "Sam said you got sick or something. What happened?"

"Would the two of you leave me alone? It's nothing—I'm all right—I just fainted for a minute."

"You _fainted_?" Eyebrow raised, David asked nonchalantly, "What, did Rocket Man propose or something?"

Maddie glared at him as only she could, her mouth set in a narrow line, her nostrils dilated. "You! Haven't you ruined my evening enough with your little restaurant switch? You have to come over here, pick a fight with Sam—"

"Hey—he hit me first!" His protest only inflamed her further.

"—break one of my windows, and then—THEN—you _make fun_ of me?"

"Maddie, I'm not—"

She began pacing in front of him, slippers slapping on the pavers. David didn't think he had ever seen her so angry, except possibly when they argued over the Bower case.

"ENOUGH! For two-and-a-half years you've been mocking me, ridiculing everything about me: my interests, my work ethic, even my fantasies. Well, I'm tired of being the punchline of all your jokes, David. That man in there—" she pointed to the house—"is a good man. He appreciates me. He never makes fun of me."

"Guy doesn't make a lot of fun, period," David mumbled to himself.

"It's all just a game to you, isn't it? This whole thing: showing up here, there, and everywhere, grabbing and kissing me at your pleasure, and then disappearing. All just part of the package of using Maddie Hayes for your personal amusement!"

She finally stopped pacing and stood in front of him, arms crossed, panting slightly.

He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

It was true, actually. He _did_ like provoking her…but not for the reason she assumed. Her anger, her raw, uncontrolled fury, gave the lie to her cool façade, revealing the intensely passionate woman within. Until he could figure out how to capture that Inner Maddie for better purposes, turning her fifty shades of pissed off would have to do. And if one could lead to the other…

"Well?" she demanded, breaking into his thoughts. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

He had plenty to tell her, volumes of wordless poetry probably best declaimed between warm sheets. He leaned forward, brushing a stray hair off her cheek; holding her eyes locked with his, he reached to pull her closer.

She deadarmed him with her fists (_damn and double-damn!_), disbelief written on her face.

"You think—you think when I get this angry, that it's some kind of an…_invitation_?! To hell with you, David Addison!" She threw her arms up. "I don't know why I'm even wasting my time. You'll never change…you'll never grow up…you'll never be someone I can rely on!"

Her accusations doused him like ice water. All at once, he saw the last few days through her eyes. The rose-and-mask scheme: absurd. Vanishing to Vegas, without even a phone call: irresponsible. "Spying" on her at the restaurant and brawling with Sam: immature. Oh, and let's not forget childish.

_This_ was how she saw him, how she would always see him. She wanted something different…_someone_ different.

He ran a hand through his hair. "I hope you'll be happy, Maddie," he said, without a trace of sarcasm. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he headed down the steep driveway for the long walk home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Maddie watched David meander down the driveway, her anger evaporating. His final words to her had been unexpectedly sincere, and there was hopelessness in the slump of his shoulders and the tuneless hum that drifted back to her.

Tears pricked her lashes as she looked up at the sky, at the thousands of stars that glimmered there. Part of her felt horribly guilty for the things she'd said to David ; part of her felt like he deserved to hear them…and thought that he might not take them seriously anyway.

She knew David cared about her, knew he found her attractive, knew, in fact, that they had been building up to some kind of showdown all year. The arrival of Sam had, perhaps, accelerated things. But the outcome might not have been any different without Sam in the picture.

Sam. He was offering her a future—a wonderful future. And they already had a pretty good track record; they were comfortable together for seven years. It had been easy...no surprises, no tantrums, no major drama.

Actually, she was having trouble remembering exactly why they had split up in the first place. She had been 25 then, still modeling, still traveling quite a bit. She was doing a lot more international work, which meant farther-flung destinations and longer trips. Sam was finishing his Ph.D. and looking ahead. He started making noises about settling down, but she didn't feel ready; a few months later, she told him they should go their separate ways. Literally, in her case: she accepted a three-month job in Europe, touring with the fashion shows there.

And now? Now she was 36, done with continent-hopping, and ready to think about the next phase of her life…and in walks Sam, again. Perfect timing, right?

Maybe. In any case, she owed him a conversation. Shivering suddenly in the night air, she made her way to the front door.

"Watch out!" Sam called as she stepped inside. She looked down; shards of glass glittered on the terracotta tile. Sam squatted, dustpan in hand, sweeping up the remains.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Maddie began.

He smiled up at her. "It's OK. You always did have a good set of pipes. Remember when I borrowed your baseball glove and left it out in the rain?"

It was the perfect thing to say to put things back on a pleasant footing. "You weren't too happy either, as I recall," Maddie put in. "Your mother made you buy me a new one."

"Yeah—she was a stickler for 'responsibility'." He straightened up, holding the full dustpan. "This is the last of it, I think. Be right back."

Maddie stood there for a minute, tracing the hole where the sidelight had been. She heard Sam's step, felt his arms go around her.

"Let's go," he said, into her shoulder. "Don't want you to catch cold." He led her into the living room, where the stereo played some soothing ballad and the fire still glowed.

They sank down onto the couch together. Pulling her to him, he kissed the top of her head.

"It's been quite a day," she murmured.

Sam was silent for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. Then: "Let me take you away from all this."

"What, my living room?"

"No—all this—" His gesture was vague, but she knew what he meant. "Marry me, Maddie. We can go back to Chicago, away from all this craziness."

She felt a little impatient. "Sam…this 'craziness' is my _life_." She drew back to look at him; his face was serious, almost scornful. Something was nagging at her memory…

"C'mon, Maddie…you're organized, efficient, hardworking…you like things to be mapped out, to make sense. None of this makes sense…but you and I, we _do_ make sense."

All at once, she needed to move; she walked over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel. "I _did_, Sam. I did like things all mapped out. But since Sawyer took my money, I've changed…sometimes, I don't know where the next case is coming from. Sometimes I don't know how I'm going to pay the bills next month. But I've worked hard, and I've built something, and I'm damn proud of it. I like my life."

She stopped then, realizing she'd just defended—rather vehemently—the very things she usually complained most about. It didn't sound like her at all, though she had meant every word.

Sam chuckled a little. Rising from the couch, he took her in his arms again and held her close to his chest. "I didn't mean to imply…of course you should be proud. But Blue Moon isn't going to satisfy you forever—what about a family, kids? You always wanted that before…"

"I still want that…I think—I don't know. That's the truth: I don't know what I want, what I'm going to do, what the future holds. And that's not so frightening to me any more."

She pulled back a little, but he held her by the elbows. "Don't throw away what we could have—don't make that mistake. I know you, Maddie. You'll regret it."

The years fell away. _"You're making a mistake,"_ he had said to her a decade ago, when she left him because—she remembered now—the thought of marrying him felt stifling somehow, as though she would have to smother some essential part of herself to become his. At the time, she'd thought it was because she was young, and still had so many things to experience. But now, she saw it was really that his vision of the future was so static, so proscribed. He had no room for spontaneity, for silly maracas, for falling into a mail cart. And no room, really, for the woman she'd become.

"No, Sam, you don't know me—not any more."

The change in him was swift, almost frightening; his warmth evaporated and his expression hardened. "I suppose you think your 'partner' knows you better?"

They locked eyes for a long moment before he turned away—in disgust or disappointment, she wasn't sure which.

"I think you'd better go," she said with quiet firmness.

"Maddie—"

"No, Sam. There's no point in drawing this out. I can't marry you."

He grabbed the ring off the coffee table and put on his suitcoat, resentment in every movement. Maddie stopped him at the door, a hand on his arm: "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

"Too late," he said angrily, striding to his rental car. He drove off without looking back.

* * *

Maddie was in the middle of reconciling their corporate account when a quiet knock sounded on her office door.

"Come in," she called warily, half-fearful it would be David. She hadn't seen him at all that day; his door had been closed all morning, and after last night, she had no intention of bearding the lion in his den.

But it was Miss DiPesto who crept in, seating herself gingerly on the chair in front of Maddie's desk. Head down, she said, "Ms. Hayes, I just came to tell you I'm really, really sorry about last night. My desk is pretty clean, so it shouldn't take me long to pack up."

"Pack up—what are you talking about?"

"Last night—the restaurant—I told you the wrong place…"

Maddie felt a surge of sympathy for her poor beleaguered receptionist. It wasn't really her fault, after all.

"Oh, _Agnes_. I'm not going to fire you. I know how it is with Mr. Addison—once he gets an idea into his head—"

"Mr. Addison!" Agnes interrupted. "You think this was all _his_ idea? Well, it wasn't! I tricked him just like I tricked you!" She flung herself out of the chair. "Oh, I know…Good ol' Agnes, doesn't have a thought in her head beyond her next rhyme. Well, it's not true, Ms. Hayes—I see everything that goes on around here…I've been watching the two of you for almost three years! And if you're too pigheaded to figure things out, then I'm gonna do it for you!"

In a week of surprises, this might be the biggest. Sweet little Miss DiPesto as a master manipulator, puppet-string puller extraordinaire. And David—David had been duped too; he really had come to the Inn to meet the FBI agent…and when the night blew up, he took the blame on himself.

Groaning, Maddie covered her face with her hands. Why couldn't people just be what they seemed, for once?

Agnes had plopped down in her chair again, looking as though she awaited the executioner.

Maddie sighed. She hadn't had enough sleep to be dealing with psychological complexities on this level, though she supposed some kind of censure was in order. Taking a deep breath, she waded in. "Miss DiPesto, it was wrong of you to meddle in my personal life—and Mr. Addison's. Mr. Addison and I are adults, and whether or not we…well, no matter what…goes on between us, it's nobody's business but ours." She put on her sternest look. "I don't want anything like this to happen again."

Nodding, Agnes studied her hands for a minute, then looked up. "That's it? You're not going to fire me?"

"Not this time."

A relieved grin lit up Agnes' quirky features. "I'll get back to work then—you can count on me!" At the door, however, she hesitated. "Ms. Hayes? I just—did you want me to make dinner reservations—real ones, I mean—Crawford, party of two?"

Turning back to her books, Maddie replied, "No thanks, that won't be necessary."

"Eating in, huh?"

Maddie set down her pen. She might as well tell her; she'd have no peace until she did. "Sam's not here. He…went back."

"To space?" Agnes' eyes widened.

"No, to…Florida, I think. Or Chicago—I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?"

"Nope, I'm not sure. Now, Miss DiPesto, if you don't mind…" Maddie gestured to her desk, trying to ignore what the effervescent sparkle in Agnes' eyes probably meant. She was out the door almost before Maddie could blink.

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. Some days, it was hard to tell whether she was running a business or a particularly unruly kindergarten. Still, as the door clicked shut she sent up a quick prayer of thanks for busybody receptionists. In the end, she thought, perhaps Agnes had saved her a lot of heartache.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** I have taken a bit of artistic license here...assuming that Maddie has seen David's apartment, in all its unfurnished glory, before. Also, I've borrowed Maddie's middle name from a Virtual Moonlighting episode, and thanks go to Connie for the Bennett song.

This is it, folks (except for the epilogue)...hope it's what you've been waiting for. :)

**Chapter Eighteen**

The rich baritone of Tony Bennett rolled through David's office as he lay on the leather couch, a pillow over his head.

I guess I'll have to change my plan  
I should have realized there'd be another man  
I overlooked that point completely  
Until the big affair began

Before I knew where I was at  
I found myself upon the shelf and that was that  
I tried to reach the moon but when I got there  
All that I could get was air

My feet are back upon the ground  
I lost the one girl I'd found

I guess I'll have to change my plan  
I should have realized there'd be another man  
Why did I buy those blue pajamas  
Before that big affaire began?

My boiling point is much too low  
For me to try to be a fly Lothario  
I think I'll crawl right back and into my shell  
Dwelling in my personal hell

I'll have to change my plan around  
I lost the one girl I've found.

Yes the one girl I've found.

For a few minutes, he wallowed in the plaintive melody. By now, Maddie and her—he threw the pillow across the room—fiancé probably had the date set and the caterer booked. Soon, he'd be receiving a gilt-embossed invitation: "Mr. & Mrs. Alexander Hayes request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter Madolyn Grace…" He chucked a tiki sculpture against the wall; it splintered satisfyingly.

Maddie—married. Why the hell couldn't he have seen this coming? Why the hell hadn't he acted earlier? Why the _hell_ did all the best women in his life—and this one outshone the rest by a wide margin—decide they were better off with somebody else? He slammed his empty scotch glass (hey, it was five o'clock somewhere in the world) down on the table. The tumbler, predictably, shattered.

_Jesus__, Addison. If you don't get a hold of yourself, this place is gonna look like a china shop after the bull comes through. Enough's enough—you've gotten over other blondes, you'll find a way to get over this one._

Walking determinedly over to the stereo, he traded Tony for the more upbeat Temptations. He sat down at his desk, trying valiantly to focus...

Right in the middle of a pitched battle between Godzilla and Teen Wolf –Teen Wolf was kicking the crap out of the Scaly Sensation; must've been the killer jump shot— Agnes flew through the door, collapsing against it as it closed. She was breathing heavily.

"Let me guess," he said. "Magillicudy and Viola have broken the détente?"

Agnes shook her head, still panting.

"The L.A. Marathon decided to run right through Blue Moon?"

"No," she gasped.

David came around his desk and sat on the corner. "The Redcoats are coming?"

"No, Mr. Addison! He's gone!"

"He? Who? The sandwich guy? Dangit, I was just going to order one of those—"

"No!" Agnes shouted.

"Viola? It's not Viola, is it?" He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Listen, Agnes, if he's done the amour-and-amscray, I swear I'll—"

"No! No!" She grabbed his hand, her face wreathed in smiles. "Sam—HE'S GONE!!" She started jumping up and down; David felt he had no choice but to jump too.

"Wait—wait!" He held up a hand. "What do you mean…like, gone to feather the nest? Book the clergy? Rent a best man? Or gone like—"

"—like Hit the Road, Jack. Given his walking papers. Shown the door!"

"Sayonara, Sammy?"

She nodded. "Ms. Hayes—said—NO!"

David took a few steps back, leaning against the desk. The shock of relief was almost overwhelming. He was glad, very glad that she wasn't going to marry the smug sonofabitch.

But unfortunately, it didn't mean anything had changed between him and Maddie.

Agnes was pacing, ticking things off on one hand. "Miss DiPesto," he called. No response—he snapped his fingers. "Miss DiPesto!"

"What? Sorry, it's just, we have so much to do—"

He talked over her. "Thanks for the Marital Status Update. You can go back to the phones now." Taking her elbow, he turned her toward the door.

"What? What are you doing?" she cried.

"Much as I'd like to chat about the lovelives of all the _other_ employees, I really have to…get back to work," he said, with a glance at his conspicuously empty desk.

She stopped short and turned, pointed finger hovering dangerously over his chest. "Wait. A. Minute…You mean, I run in here, with this big news, after rushing around all last night for you, and you're going to do—NOTHING?"

"No…I'm not gonna do 'nothing'—I'm gonna make a few calls, maybe get my shoes shined, head over to Pink's for a late lunch...I'm a busy man, Agnes."

He didn't like the flinty look in her eye. "And what about Ms. Hayes?" she demanded.

"D'you think she wants a chili-cheesedog too?"

"That's NOT what I'm talking about, Mr. Addison. And you know it."

Agnes' perseverance was touching, but he just didn't see how many more times he could put himself out there without feeling like a complete idiot. He shrugged. "Ms. Hayes knows where to find me if she…wants me for anything."

Agnes blew her top. "So, what? You're not going to lift a finger? Just going to sit back and wait for her, then? Who do you think you are—the _Fonz_?!"

"Heyyyyy…"

David found himself unceremoniously dumped on the couch. Agnes towered over him. "This isn't a joke! Who knows how much time you have before another spaceman shows up? You need to let Ms. Hayes know how you feel—"

"Look, I've tried, OK? I tried at her house, at the restaurant, in her driveway...her response was pretty clear."

"Well, maybe you weren't going about it the right way."

David raked a hand through his hair; she stood in front of him, unmoving. Didn't look like the Dauntless DiPesto was going to leave him alone. It might be easiest to go along with her for now, and weasel out of—whatever it was—later. "I suppose you have some ideas..."

"Oh, I do!" she exclaimed joyfully. "I'll get Jamie to cover the phones, and meet you downstairs in ten minutes. DON'T—" she paused by the door—"be late!"

* * *

Checking her watch, Maddie pounded on the door. "David?" she called. "Agnes said you got a break on the—"

The door swung open, revealing David…dressed in a white dinner coat, and black tie?! Maddie looked down in dismay at her casual slacks and sweater. "Are we going undercover?"

"Now _there's_ an idea," he grinned rakishly.

She rolled her eyes. "Agnes didn't say—" Stepping in, she glanced around, shocked into silence.

David's formerly empty living room now boasted more plants than a nursery. Greenery was everywhere: potted trees covered the floor, trailing vines hung at the windows. Fairy lights were strung on the trees, and, in the center of the room, a white-covered table sparkled with crystal and silver. The effect was…magical.

"What _is_ all this?" she asked, wandering down the stairs. Then it hit her: it was a replica of the Inn of the Seventh Ray, down to the little bouquet in the middle of the table. She stared back at David.

It didn't make any sense. When he had left her last night, he seemed to recognize their differences, the vast space that made it so unlikely that anything romantic could work between them. And yet…

"Did—did you do this for me?" The answer was obvious, but she wanted to hear him say it.

He favored her with a wry smile. "Snow White said she was busy."

Maddie supposed she deserved that, but she couldn't stop. "Why?"

"I didn't think I could get you all the way up Topanga Canyon in a blindfold."

She didn't know whether to be touched or furious. Obviously, he had gone to a great deal of trouble—but what made him think she would stay? If he assumed that, just because she'd said no to Sam—

"You said it was amazing. The Inn, I mean." She looked at him again—_really_ looked, this time. He stood there, one hand in his pocket, coolly handsome…but she could see anxiety in the set of his mouth.

Her heart softened a little. "But how did you—"

"Agnes," they said together, and laughed. It broke the tension, and helped clear the dazed fog from her mind. She gestured to her clothes. "I feel a little ridiculous, dressed like this."

"You're in luck…your fairy godmother left you something. It's hanging on the back of the door." He ushered her toward his bedroom.

Cautiously, Maddie went in, expecting to find all the symbols of David's bachelor lifestyle: piles of clothes that could walk to the laundry on their own, a collection of empty beer bottles, dusty gym equipment.

But no. This room was neat as the proverbial pin, floor swept, bottle-free. But the biggest surprise was the bed—instead of a mess of musty sheets, it was an expanse of white, with plump pillows and a beautiful cutwork duvet. She sank down on it.

What a bizarre week: Sam coming back, David in a mask, proposals, kisses, fistfights, refusals. She wasn't even upset anymore—just numb, really.

And now…all this. How should she respond? What should she do? She felt the fog beginning to settle again. That's when she saw the black strapless dress, the same dress she had pulled out of her closet, four mornings ago.

In a way, it was the dress that started it all. She remembered how she'd felt, shimmying in front of her mirror—wild, audacious, damn sexy. After years of a (mostly) quiet libido, she'd felt like a full-blooded woman again…ready, more than ready, for a man's hands, a man's mouth, a man's body. What had she said to David? _"My chastity belt is pinching me!"_

After the debacle in her foyer, however, Maddie had stuffed those untamed impulses back where she thought they belonged. And the emotional whirlwind of the past few days had left her little inclination for reckless abandon.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. "Maddie? You OK in there? Need anything zipped? How 'bout unzipped—that's my specialty…"

She hated to admit it, but there was something in his tone—something low and intimate—that set her nerves buzzing and roused mirror-Maddie from her slumber. When she took the dress down, something fell through it to the floor. A red rose. She picked it up, inhaling its fragrance…and made her decision. What was the harm, after all, in having dinner?

Before she could change her mind, she slipped into the dress and the heels Agnes had left. Giving her hair a shake, she opened the door, the rose at her lips.

David leaned in, hand on the doorknob. "Thank God," he said. "I thought you'd gone out the window."

She smiled slowly, taking her time. "Oh, no—if I leave, I'm walking right out that front door."

* * *

It was going well, he thought, almost just as he'd pictured. Mama Borrone's lasagne, from the tiny Italian place around the corner, was delicious. He had told Maddie some great stories about Sister Cornelia, and sneaking the collection plate money to buy comic books. She had told him about trying out for the boys' baseball team, and getting her first modeling contract. Music from the boom box in the corner wrapped around them, creating an atmosphere of intimacy.

And then he poured the champagne.

"What are we drinking to?" she asked.

"Well, I know what _I'm_ celebrating." He raised his flute in imitation of a rocket launching.

It was the wrong thing to say.

She put her glass down. "Don't, David—don't start."

"What?" He tilted his head and smiled…charmingly, he hoped. "Is it wrong that I'm glad he's gone…and we're here?"

"It wasn't a decision I made lightly—I'm not _happy_ about it."

"You're not happy about the decision? Meaning—you wish you had said yes?"

"No—I don't wish I'd said yes!" she exclaimed, frustrated. "I just—I wish I hadn't had to make the decision at all. Everything's been so confusing—"

"What's been so confusing?" _Careful there, Dave._ Storm clouds were brewing.

"Well—this, for one. _This_ is confusing. I mean, what the hell are we doing here, David?"

His heart plummeted. Was she being deliberately obtuse? How could she _not_ see what all this meant? "We're having dinner, Maddie. They do that now in civilized countries."

"That's all? Just 'dinner'?"

"What else did you have in mind?" he smirked. She wanted to hear something, some declaration…but if the fact that he (and Agnes) had spent three hours transforming his apartment wasn't enough, then he wasn't going to torture himself any longer.

She threw down her napkin and stood up. "This was obviously a mistake."

At the moment, he couldn't agree more. He stalked to his bedroom, while she grabbed her purse and headed for the front door.

The opening chords of "Unchained Melody" swelled through the room.

Oh, my love  
My darling  
I've hungered for your touch  
A long, lonely time

_Great_, he thought. Eyes shut, he waited for the slam, the usual crescendo to their more revealing interactions.

But there was silence. He turned around; she was standing at the door, leaning her head against it.

He took a few steps forward. "What do you want from me, Maddie?"

"I just want to know why I'm here. Why you showed up at my house in a mask. Why you got in a fistfight with Sam." Finally, she looked back at him; in the moonlight, he could see a tear glisten on her cheek. "Is that really so much to ask, David?"

"You are some piece of work, Ms. Hayes," he said softly. "You're asking me why I've done all this? Because…because I'm trying to _show you_ something—something you should already know."

There. That was it. He couldn't give her any more. If she walked out now, so be it.

And time goes by so slowly  
and time can do so much  
are you still mine?  
I need your love  
I need your love  
Godspeed your love to me

Slowly, she came back down the stairs.

"D'you think I would do this for just anyone, Blondie? D'you think I would wait this long for just anyone?" He held out his hand. "Dance with me."

She hesitated; he could see her weighing her options. At last, she stepped into his arms.

Dancing with her was easy. It was one of the things they had always done well, since that first time in the bar downtown. They moved fluidly together, without talking, without even thinking.

Lonely rivers flow to the sea,  
to the sea  
to the open arms of the sea  
lonely rivers sigh 'wait for me, wait for me'  
I'll be coming home…wait for me

When David imagined making love to her (which he had done with rather alarming frequency over the past few days), he thought it would be like this…a speechless dance, where each knew instinctively how to move, where to touch. _Yes_, he thought, relishing the feel of her head on his shoulder.

But first, there would be defenses to get past, walls to dismantle. What had he been thinking, pulling out the Irish bed linens his mother had left him? Hoping that maybe, tonight… No way. Maddie would never come to his bed without careful consideration of the pros and cons. Lists might even be involved.

Of course, if he spoke up, told her exactly how he felt, it might be different…the trouble was, he couldn't seem to do that, to put all the puzzling—and sometimes conflicting—feelings he had for her into words. He didn't even know if he wanted to try.

Oh, my love  
my darling  
I've hungered for your touch  
a long lonely time  
and time goes by so slowly  
and time can do so much  
are you still mine?

Well, fine. He would suck every drop of enjoyment out of this dance, and then let her go—let her figure it out. Marshalling all his self-control, he resisted the urge to sweep the silken curls aside and bury his face in her neck.

I need your love  
I need your love  
Godspeed your love to me

When the last few notes faded away, he released her. But he had forgotten the first rule of Life With Maddie Hayes: Expect the unexpected.

He looked at her, thinking he would see a jumble of emotions on her face: confusion, withdrawal, sadness, even anger. But it was desire, pure and simple, that he read there, in the instant before she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

He tried to go slowly, he really did. He tried to capture each new sensation and file it away in his memory: her hands in his hair; her finger exploring underneath his collar; the wonder of her velvet skin, the taste of it as he ran his tongue along her shoulder; the soft moan that vibrated in his ear.

But all too soon—and, of course, not soon enough—they were somehow by the white bed, and Maddie was loosening his tie and fumbling with his shirt studs. The zipper of her dress slid smoothly down; in a moment, a pile of velvet lay at her feet. Shoes, slip, pants—all evaporated, and they were kissing, deeply and hungrily, in the soft sheets.

Something was calling him from a long way away, a voice that said, "Wait! Stop!" Reluctantly, he propped himself up on an elbow, ready to counter Maddie's certain objection…but she hadn't said a thing. Her lashes lay still on her flushed cheeks; her lips, already swollen from his kisses, parted but quiet.

Her eyes fluttered open. "What is it?" she whispered.

Looking down at her, at the glory of her there on his pillow, the words finally came to him. He opened his mouth to ask her—was she sure, was she all right?—but instead…

"I love you," he breathed.

"Oh, David…" Tears glimmered in her eyes as she pulled him back down to her. She moved against him, guiding him, giving herself to him with a generosity he never could've imagined.

It was all the response he needed, for now.

* * *

Song Credits:

"I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plan"....Tony Bennett

"Unchained Melody"...Elvis Presley


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The last rays of sunlight slanted through the office windows. Stacked with 200 of its fellows, an ordinary piece of typing paper waited, snug inside a manila envelope.

Voices broke the stillness.

"Well, it's got to be here somewhere…maybe Agnes was still typing it."

"Maddie, it's after seven o'clock. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"We need this report for the Townsend meeting tomorrow. We have a responsibility here!"

"We have a 'responsibility' _here_…and _here_…and _here_—" There was a swatting sound.

"David! Oh—this must be it—"

A soft, cool hand slid the paper out of its envelope, holding it up for inspection.

"_He kissed her hand. 'You are as wise as you are beautiful, my little countess. We would never have discovered Giamatto's perfidy had it not been for your keen insights…and curious mind.'_

_Catriona blushed, 'Oh, Malefico, I am just so glad that—'_

'_Shh, cara mia, we need not speak of it again…come, our bridal chamber awaits…'"_

"What the—?" A chuckle. "Looks like Agnes DuMaurier's been burning the quill at both ends: poetry _and_ prose!" A pause. "Hey—this isn't bad, actually. Kinda…spicy. Let's check out the rest!"

Rustling followed, and then a hand came down—slap—on top of the envelope. "No, David! This is none of our business! You'll have to find something else to amuse yourself with."

"Well, _you're_ pretty amusing…amusingly pretty, too. Hey, lookie here—buttons!"

"Da-vid! This is a place of business—"

"Mm-hmm…monkey business…_risky_ business…"

"I'm serious—mmm—not here—oh! _There_…"

The paper drifted, forgotten, down underneath the desk.

"Damn, Blondie, you taste good. What're you using for lotion these days—strawberry syrup?"

"Ohhh—David, David—stop! Someone could walk by—"

"Who, ol' Janitor Byron? That'd make his mop stand up!" The desk creaked; there was a muffled moan. "C'mon—couch—"

"Not my couch!"

"Live a little, Gorgeous…"

A door slammed, and all was (mostly) silent.

The little paper lay on its bed of phone cords, undiscovered for some weeks.

* * *

April 15, 1987

Udolpho Publishing Co.  
35 East 52nd Street  
New York, NY 10022

Ms. Agnes DiPesto  
Blue Moon Detective Agency  
15555 Century Park East, Suite 2016  
Century City, CA 91302

Dear Ms. DiPesto,

We are in receipt of your novel _The Hand of Fate_. Our editors have been very impressed; you have managed to combine a fascinating slice of history with a gripping mystery. Your characters are well-drawn and quite believable, though the heroes of the books we publish are usually a bit taller.

As a strategy to increase suspense, the omission of the final page of Catriona and Malefico's adventures was rather ingenious. However, we must have the manuscript in full before we can offer you a contract. Please send the missing page at your earliest convenience.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,

A. W. Radcliffe  
Senior Editor  
Gothic Division

**F I N I S**

**Acknowledgments:**

Thanks to Glenn Caron for creating these characters, who live on long after the studio lights have gone out...

Thanks to the Moonlighting message board crew for all their support, and to my husband, who pitches in for me when the story ideas start rolling...

And one final round of thanks for Julia and Connie, superbetas, and to Jenna, who's been there with an encouraging word when I needed it!


End file.
